


Children of the Night

by spinner33



Series: CM - AU [1]
Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: AU - Vampires, Death, Hotch!Vampire, M/M, Mild BDSM, Murder, Necromancer!Spencer, Role Playing, abuse of a corpse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-26 22:46:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 22,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5023492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spinner33/pseuds/spinner33
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Case fic spliced with Vampire AU.   In the prologue and the epilogue, the team is called to Monroeville, PA to solve a case with supernatural connections.  In the AU body of the story, Spencer Reid goes in search of his missing mentor, and meets a tall, dark, and mysterious count.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue - "What's On The Slab"

**Author's Note:**

> Give it a whirl! It's better than the description sounds =)

Prologue

The BAU team had known when they left Quantico that the case in Pennsylvania was an urgent one. There was one man dead and two teens missing from Monroeville, a polite, quiet suburb of Pittsburgh. The missing teens were the top priority. Either they were in danger, or they were the danger. Either they were being held against their will by someone who meant them harm, or they were on the run for their lives after committing a heinous murder. There wasn’t any way to know what the situation was until the crime scene was analyzed, the deceased was autopsied, and the children were located. 

As it turned out, luck was the team that day. The case took far less time to unravel than the BAU’s cases usually took. Perhaps it was due to the unsophisticated nature of the person who had committed this particular homicide. Whatever the reason, matters started to wrap up almost as quickly as the team arrived. Rossi and Morgan were sent to check out the crime scene. The bare facts were as follows: 30-year-old high school drama teacher Mr. David Drake was dead from a bashed-in skull, among other injuries. There was no forced entry, and no lack of evidence at the crime scene. There were numerous fingerprints from all the missing teens—on soda bottles, on pizza boxes, on a baseball bat. The girl had even left her backpack at the scene, for crying out loud. Morgan and Rossi returned to the police station with copious evidence and notes which pointed in the direction of the missing teens having committed this crime. The presumption became that they were on the run, because Mr. Drake’s car was also missing. 

Hotch and JJ took the lead on finding the missing teens—a boy and a girl. They called Jamie Wheatley's home, and visited her family first. Neither of the teens was in trouble with family or the law. Neither of the teens had a record. They weren’t angels, but they weren’t the sort of kids one would picture capable of this kind of crime right out of the gate. 

Hotch next called the Malverns, hoping to drive over and meet with them to discuss their son Jonathan. JJ saw Hotch’s face go blank with surprise, and then light up with uncharacteristic brightness.

“Mr. Malvern? This is SSA Aaron Hotchner from the FBI. I’d like to meet with you and your wife to discuss your son……oh. He is? Right there? They did? You will? Thank you very much, Mr. Malvern. We’ll be right over.”

The teens had all walked through the front door of the Malvern home at the exact moment that Hotch called, and the Malverns were going to sit in the living room with the kids until the FBI arrived, no ifs, ands, or buts about it. Mr. Malvern wanted to sort out this misunderstanding right away. Hotch, Morgan, JJ, and Rossi went to retrieve the teens and the Malverns, so it fell to Prentiss and Reid to go to the morgue and get acquainted with the ME and the deceased.

It proved to be a very short examination, because there were absolutely no surprises. The ME was waiting for them, dancing on her toes, unable to conceal her excitement. Her chipper tone struck Reid as weird. He followed Prentiss through the door, so Emily could shake hands and make greetings.

“Right this way,” the ME bubbled. “Velcome to my humble abode.”

Reid glanced at her, raised a brow. He was curious about her strange accent. Was that a hint of Romanian he had detected? He glanced at her name badge: Dr. Westin. Odd for her to have an Eastern European accent. Not impossible, of course, just highly unusual.

“Hi. I’m Agent Prentiss. This is Dr. Reid. We’re here to see……..” Emily stopped in her tracks, and Reid collided with her. He pulled up and sideways, peering over her shoulder. The ME was snorting with amusement. Her assistants were howling and laughing like jackals. Prentiss looked at Reid. Reid looked at Prentiss. They both looked at the ME.

“Are you kidding me?” Prentiss blurted.

Mr. Drake was on display in the middle of the room on a cold, metal slab. Reid moved closer to the table and examined him. Drake’s dark hair was slicked back except for an exaggerated widow’s peak. He was wearing a very formal tuxedo and a long black cape. His skull was a massive disaster. He had fangs protruding from his bloody mouth, and a very large wooden stake protruding from the middle of his chest.

“What you see is what you get,” the ME reported. “Blunt force trauma to the skull – baseball bat would be my guess. The stake was driven in post mortem – more for show than for the actual kill.”

It didn’t take two minutes to confirm what she was saying. Reid glanced at Prentiss when her phone rang.

“Prentiss,” she said. “Uh huh. You have them? Uh huh. They turned themselves in? He’s already confessed? We’ll be right there.”

She hung up and shrugged to Reid.

“Hotch said they located the teens, and the boy has confessed to killing Drake. Hotch wants us back at the station.”

Reid stared at Mr. Drake on the table, and shook his head in wonder.

“Let’s go see what Van Helsing has to say for himself,” the doctor murmured.


	2. 1 - The Master of the Castle

The Master of the Castle watched with interest as the tiny coach made its way up the treacherous path below. The Master’s foreboding ancestral home was perched on the very edge of the uppermost cliffs, like a twisted, gray gargoyle preparing to take flight into the ravines and river valleys below. Over the centuries the castle had attracted many kinds of travelers – power-hungry warlords, invading armies, encroaching priests, vampire hunters, and meddling scientists. No one from Carpathia entered the Master’s forests without his express permission, so he knew it was an outsider coming to greet him. 

This morning, the Master had barely been interested in the coach or its occupant. He had noted cursory tidbits, such as the fact his new nemesis traveled very lightly. The visitor had loaded one small trunk onto the coach which would wind its way to the top of the mountain. No assistant. No valet. No guardian. No wife. No pupil. The man was traveling in Carpathia alone. That spoke of either great arrogance or great innocence, perhaps a combination of both. 

The Master burned an hour of daylight, perhaps two, perhaps three, as he read a book, strolled the main hall to stretch his legs, and batted away the cobwebs that were encroaching on the life-size portrait of his beloved first wife. Yesterday’s insomnia had carried over to this today as well. The Master was in a grim mood indeed. When it was after one, and he had yet to close his eyes, he gave up on getting any sleep at all. He climbed the tower steps, hanging carefully in the dark shadows as he went along. Hateful sunbeams patrolled the windows, and he did not dare get too close to them. As he was dragging himself upwards, he had caught another glimpse of the coach on the winding path, and he had felt a glimmer of hope. 

The new arrival had made good progress so far, but that wouldn’t go on forever. It would not do for him to reach the castle before nightfall had spread out her glorious dark cloak. The coach would begin to crawl the rest of the way. Morgan, the Coachman, would blame the narrow passage or the danger of falling rock ahead. Everything was pre-arranged between the Coachman and the Master of the Castle. 

Long ago, the Master had decided that rather than allowing these self-appointed guardians and glory hunters to wander through his forests and around his villages, scaring the local populace with their gory tales of mad scientists who rob graves to build walking monsters, or ghouls who would drink the blood of virgins, that perhaps it would be better to control their movements from the moment they arrived at the edge of his domain. So the Master stationed Morgan and his coach at the village at the head of the mountain path that led to his home. No one without wings could approach his ancestral palace unless they took this path. 

The Master was perhaps too sentimental in his attachment for the simple, country folk, but their obedience and loyalty warmed his heart. For centuries, their toil had fed his family, and he was therefore somewhat foolishly fond of them. He did not wish to see them come to harm. They depended on him for protection, and he depended on them for food and company. His beloved first wife had been a local girl, after all, and he held her fondly in his heart to this day. It had been three hundred years or more since her untimely demise, a terrifying fall from the steep castle walls into the ravines below. There had been whispers among the villagers that in a fit of despair, the Master’s wife had thrown herself over rather than face spending eternity with him. He hoped those evil whispers had been lies. 

The arrangement with Morgan worked very well. When a new nemesis would arrive in the village, swelled with the desire for adventure, the surety of his cause, and the heaviness of his own ego, the coach would be waiting. The Coachman had his instructions to bring the interlopers forthwith directly to the Master of the Castle. This precaution saved lives. One could not count the number of times some poor innocent halfwit, blessed of size but blighted of intelligence, had been lynched by the bungling morons who mistook him for a monster. 

No longer would lonely, withered hags who inhabited paltry huts in the woods, those whom society had shunned, those who wandered the forests and spoke only with the animals, no longer would they be burned as witches because of their dreadful appearance. 

No more corpses would be disinterred and desecrated by those fearing the rise of the undead, seeking to prevent the continuation of the line by decapitating the recently-buried, tearing out their hearts, and hacking apart their bodies to burn their limbs on a bone-fire. This fate had befallen the Master's beloved first wife. Though she had been smashed beyond recognition by her fall from the castle walls, her corpse had been disinterred, mutilated, and burned, her ashes spread carelessly to the four winds. 

The Master had been so lonely in her absence that he had sought to replace her, first with one wife, then with another, then another. Though these ladies had singular charms all their own, he had found himself left unsatisfied with their company. None of them could hold a torch to his first wife’s memory. He allowed the three wives to remain in his home, tending to his needs, seeing to the comfort of his guests, delighting in one another's company. They were useful creatures. Too curious about his comings and goings though. He couldn’t walk from one end of the castle to the other without the three of them materializing to see what he was doing. They too had surely noticed the coach climbing the steep path. 

A whisper of movement, no more than an echo of light and a rustle of fine silk, alerted him to their arrival. They slithered out of the shadows as fine mist – perfumed clouds drenched with the smell of wild flowers, incense, and exotic spices. They took on corporeal forms, and stationed themselves to his left, his right, and his back. They three began to whisper to him where he stood, watching the coach on the road. 

“Another one? So soon?” observed the second wife, Emily, a brunette, tall and thin and possessed of deep brown eyes. In life she had been reckless for adventure, and he had been drawn to her thirst for everything dangerous. But she could be maudlin from time to time, and when she was depressed, he felt nothing but her sorrow. The castle was gray with gloom when she was down-hearted. She among the wives always spoke first, and the others would follow her lead. 

“Too soon,” agreed the third wife, Penelope, a plump blonde, the village baker’s daughter. In life she had been quick with a laugh and usually full of cheer, but she was also prone to fits of anxious hysteria when upset. When those moods took her, she would retreat to her room and wail away for hours on end, driving every shred of happiness from the entire castle. 

“Much too soon,” agreed the fourth wife, Jennifer, a petite blonde who had once been so motherly. In life she had filled his castle with nurturing warmth, but in death, she had turned into a shriveled, antagonist shrew. The Master thought perhaps that she above the others missed the sunlight too much. 

“Shall we prepare for his arrival, Master?” 

“Turn down a bed for him?” 

“Prepare a meal for him?” 

They tittered together, amused with each other, and the Master felt himself smiling too, though it was a cold gesture that did not come from his heart. 

“Please see that a room is prepared, and a meal as well. He will surely be hungry by the time he arrives,” The Master ordered. 

“Yes.” 

“Yes.” 

“Yes.” 

They answered in chorus, moving away into the darkness with the usual flutter of motion, becoming mist and shadow once more. Busy with their task, they would not disturb him for a while at least. 

The Master had stared grimly out the window for a moment more, then continued to carefully climb the tower steps. He had loitered for a few hours in the armament room, his private lair filled with battle spears, deadly axes, and gleaming swords. Its bare beams and dark walls echoed with memories of bloody wars waged long ago, and of successful hunting expeditions that had staved off his boredom between wars. The Master admired the heads of past kills which were stuffed and mounted to the walls. These forests had once been plentiful with all sorts of game. Once upon a time, he would call together his men, and he would lead hunting parties of a hundred or more. Afterwards, he and his warriors would feast on their quarry. Once the Master would recall the thrill of each hunt, the glory of each kill. 

Now though, the delight that he had once felt lay faded within his breast. Murder did not cheer him as it had in former days. Perhaps that was a sign of maturity. There was no way to put a happy face on the situation. The Master was bored. The Master was tired. He was weighed down with a very heavy ennui. The Master needed a dash of excitement in his life. He could only hope the new arrival would provide a trace of amusement to this dull existence. 

Now though, now the sun had fallen below the horizon, and so the Master could safely venture out of his darkened lair and into the beautiful twilight. His tedium was dissipating as he stood in the open room at the top of the stone tower, admiring the velvet blackness as it descended through the valleys and across the forests. He was done pretending he wasn’t intrigued by the prospect of a new challenger, the promise of another chase. His eyes were glued to the coach.


	3. 2 - The Young Gentleman

A pinprick of light was nearing the top of the path. The coach was but a mile or two away now. The Master felt something gathering in his stomach – was that excitement? He could hear the coach wheels clacking, rocks spinning out of the way with a skip and a jump. The horses’ hooves crashed and clattered on the rocky path as they smashed smaller stones to dust. The Coachman deposited the new arrival beside the castle gates and refused to go any further. The Master pricked his ears, and eavesdropped on their entire conversation. 

“Here we are.” 

“That’s it? You’re leaving?” the young man asked as Morgan the Coachman climbed down, heaved up the small trunk with one hand, and sent it crashing down to the ground with a dramatic thump. 

“The gentleman asked to be brought to castle. The gentleman is at the castle. What more does the gentleman require?” The Coachman asked, looming over the young man, who was wilting back from the intrusion into his personal space. 

“Will you be here tomorrow?” he asked, cringing. The Coachman swung back up onto his coach, and took the whip in one hand. For a moment, he seemed to want to brandish it against the gentleman. The young man backed up against the castle gates, well out of range. 

“I will be here. But will you?” the Coachman chuckled deeply, snapping his whip above the horses, bringing the coal black steeds around with one swift yank. Their harness bells and red feathered head-dresses shook in the ill wind that was gathering. 

As the coach thundered away into the darkness, the lantern swaying back and forth like a frantic firefly, the young man steadied himself, faced the castle gates, and shouldered the long handle of his satchel. He leaned down, picked up the side handle of the trunk, and gently nudged the heavy iron gate open only far enough to drag himself and his meager belongings inside. He nudged the gate closed again, pushed his long, curly, sandy locks out of his innocent face, and pulled his trunk along as he slowly walked the half mile from the gates to the front door of the castle. 

The Master was too curious not to go and inspect this visitor more closely. From the open room at the top of the stone tower, the Master leapt out into the night, racing down the castle wall as a dark shadow and joining the mist on the ground as he descended. 

The young man hurried along the path to the massive doors. The chilly fog curled around his form, and the clinging mist put a chill into his bones. By the time he was standing at the huge, wooden, double-door, the young man seemed drained of all humor and happiness. He could not shake the feeling he was being watched. He set down his trunk, and gave the door an uncertain look. Then he reached up and gingerly tapped the ghoulish knocker that hung down at him, almost daring him to disturb the spirits within the home. 

The doors parted for him with a whoosh of wind that lifted his cloak and overcoat and every strand of his hair that wasn’t already standing on end with fright. Although the young man could not see him, the Master was now hanging above the expansive foyer, waiting, watching, hungry. He decided it might be better not to be spotted hanging there in such a fashion, so the Master took corporeal form on the first floor landing, and stared. And swallowed. And felt his heart doing strange things inside his chest. 

The young man was thin and tall, with a small nose and a large jaw. He had a pleasant face, a large mouth like the grin on a carved gourde. Deep-set, hazel-brown eyes rimmed with dark circles caught the Master’s attention and held it. Those eyes brought pity welling up in the Master, something he wasn’t accustomed to feeling. But the Master was truly hypnotized by those long, sandy, auburn-tinted curls which were once again dipping into the young man’s face. He ached to run his fingers through that hair to see if it was as soft as it looked from here. 

The young man was dressed plainly, not expensively, and the Master judged him to be a pupil or a student, not yet established in his field of study but with a promising future ahead of him. Too young to have secured tenure at a university. Too young to even be married, the Master judged, studying those long, slender fingers and seeing no ring. The young man proceeded forward into the foyer, gazing mournfully at the cold fireplace that greeted him. 

The misted perfume of the three wives surrounded the Master, and they materialized in his protected shadows with him. 

“He’s young.” 

“So young.” 

“Very young,” they observed. 

“He’s looks virginal.” 

“Delectable.” 

“Delicious,” they three decided. They turned and pleaded with the Master. 

“May we have this one, Husband?” 

“May we?” 

“Please, Master?” 

“We’ve been so good. We deserve a treat.” 

“A treat.” 

“Such a pretty treat.” 

The Master drew himself up, and dismissed them from around his shoulders and sides with an impatient hiss. 

“She who dares to lay a hand on our guest will find herself hanging off the tallest parapet at dawn’s first light,” he warned a deep, unwavering voice that left no doubt in their minds that he meant business. 

“We’re hungry.” 

“Hungry.” 

“So hungry,” they lamented. 

“Ladies, I give you the night,” the Master offered, pointing to the opened door. “You may hunt whatever pleases you, but leave this one to me.” 

With a whisper and a rush, they three were gone, racing around and past the young man with sandy, curly locks, who was staring still into the cold hearth, shivering in the dark castle foyer. The doors slammed closed, and he drew himself tight together, closing his eyes.


	4. 3 - The Pleasure of Your Company

“Hello? Is anyone there?” the young gentleman whispered. No reply echoed back from the ominous blackness that surrounded him. He opened his eyes to mere slits, cringing in upon himself even more tightly. The Master was inches away, but the young man could not sense him or hear him or see him. 

It was time to stop playing around. It took no more than a flick of the wrist, and a fire began to glow in the hearth. The flames seized upon the logs there, and offered light and warmth. The visitor shivered again, dropping to his knees, and huddling close to the open hearth. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, young man?” 

The Master made his presence known, but he did not anticipate the scream of surprise. The young man leapt to his feet and skidded backwards, like a startled doe, stumbling, losing his balance. He almost dropped into the hearth itself. The Master reached out and pulled him away from the flames, keeping a strong hand on one thin shoulder. He steadied the visitor and allowed him a chance to compose himself. 

“My apologies. I did not mean to startle you. The flames, they have dulled your eyes. You did not see my approach.” 

“No, no, sir,” the young man stammered. “I did not. Forgive me.” 

“Calm yourself. Still your heart. Tell me, what brings you here to Carpathia, to my castle, on a night like tonight? You should not be wandering alone. Night will bring another storm, I fear.” 

“I’m looking for a friend,” the young man stammered. The Master gave a thin smile, a genuine one this time that warmed his stern face and sent tickles of pleasure down into his heart and further south yet. 

“Who would embark on such an arduous journey in order to make a new acquaintance?” 

“What? Oh. I am very pleased to meet you, sir, but I meant to convey that I am searching for a friend who has gone missing. My teacher, my mentor. His last letter was sent from Carpathia ten months ago, but I have had no word from him since. I fear he may have met with mischief, and so I came to rescue him.” 

“It’s not unusual for strangers to go missing around here. Being unfamiliar with the dangers, they often disappear and are never seen again. Tell me more about your teacher. Perhaps I have seen him or heard of him,” the Master replied. In his mind he was thinking back ten months. It seemed like only yesterday to him. 

“He is Professor Gideon, sir. Jason Gideon. An American. Mid-fifties. Dark hair, balding. Portly, but not uncoordinated.” 

Oh dear. 

The Master realized from the description that he had in fact seen Professor Gideon. The teacher had indeed taken the coach from the village to the castle. But rather than introduce himself and ask leave to roam about, the interloper had wandered these ancestral forests without permission. The Master had happened upon Gideon one night while the teacher was nosing around the family crypt in the ancient chapel in the woods, disturbing the rest of the long dead. That had been the end of Professor Gideon. This did not bode well at all. The Master did not wish to cause this charming young man undue shock or grief. In fact, the Master was feeling the rise of an almost paternal protectiveness for the new visitor. 

“What was Professor Gideon seeking to find in Carpathia?” the Master asked. “What was his specialty, his field of pursuit? Was he a naturalist? A scientist? A hunter?” 

“Pursuit indeed, sir. He is a professor, true, but he is also a man of the law. He hunts serial killers, those unrepentant criminals who visit pain and suffering and death upon innocent people.” 

“And you, young sir, do you mean to follow in the path of your missing professor?” 

“I wish only to find him safe, and bring him home.” 

“If that is not possible, what then, young sir?” 

“I suppose I will leave again, much bereft.” 

“He was dear to you?” 

“Like a father. He is a brilliant man, if sometimes a harsh master. He has never been cruel, only stern. He must feel I will learn more quickly if he is strict with me.” 

“There are those who learn more quickly when guided by a firm hand,” the Master agreed. These words resulted in the most profound response – the young man nervously licked his bottom lip, drew it beneath his front teeth, and began to gently suck on it. He lowered his chin and stared up at the Master with those incredible, large eyes, as if waiting to be chastised. 

“Perhaps,” he offered timidly. 

The Master wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself for a moment or two. Lack of blood in his brain was the cause. The young man stopped nibbling his lip and continued to speak. 

“You seem certain I won’t find Professor Gideon. In fact, you keep referring to him in the past tense. Have you seen him? Do you know of him?” 

Oh dear God. The confession was on his lips. The Master might as well tell all that he knew. 

“I do not mean to cause you distress, but I remember a man very like the one you described. The villagers below came to report that an American stranger wandering the forests without permission took a misstep near the chapel, and he tumbled into one of the ravines. I’m afraid his remains lie there still. If this is your mentor, I am sorry for your loss,” the Master lied smoothly, easily. 

The young man’s face washed over with grief, and though he tried to swallow back his emotions, he was not successful. His large eyes filled with tears, and he bit his mouth closed to hold back an unconscious sob of grief. He turned his face away for a moment, hanging his head sadly. Then he spun back around and raised that innocent, tear-stained face at the Master. 

“Please, sir, can you take me to this ravine? I need to know if it was Professor Gideon who died there.” 

In that moment, the Master felt moved, whether by altruistic kindness or some unspeakable sorcery, he couldn’t be sure. Whatever the cause, he did an unwise thing. He stepped forward and embraced the young man, caressing his back to quiet his sobs. It was while stroking the young man that the Master felt an irresistible curiosity pull at him. He suddenly needed to touch that hair. 

The Master nosed against the sandy curls that were draped against the young man’s cheek. The Master discovered the scent of ancient books, dusty parchments, India ink, cinnamon and cloves, and something he hadn’t smelled in a very long time – untainted purity. His nose dropped from those enticing curls to the heartbeat that throbbed beneath the warm skin of that long, delicious neck. He fairly drooled with hunger, and knew he should withdraw at once or risk himself doing harm to the young man. 

“I do not mean to cause you pain. I’m afraid it would be impossible to make our way there tonight, even by the light of the full moon. A storm is approaching. The mists in the valleys would impede our path, and very likely, were we caught outside in foul weather, we would slip on the rocks and share your teacher’s fate. But fear not. I will bid my servant to seek out Professor Gideon’s bones, so that you may return him to his family, and give him a proper burial.” 

“Thank you, sir, thank you, very kind of you. I can’t thank you enough. How can I ever repay your kindness, sir?” the young man stammered, gazing gratefully up at the Master again as the dark haired, dark-eyed man released him, and dried one cheek with a stroke of his hand. 

“Let us share a polite meal, and a few hours of conversation, perhaps? Though I can tell by looking into your eyes that the long journey has drained you. Where are my manners? Our conversation can wait until tomorrow. Let me show you to a room, where you may eat, and bathe, and sleep the night. You should rest. Do not be afraid. You are safe in my home.” 

“I am very tired,” the young man admitted, giving a kittenish yawn, drying his face, rubbing his eyes. “It’s been a long journey.” 

“Come. I will take you to your room. A servant will bring your bags. A bath will be drawn for you. A meal, served.” 

“What about you? Aren’t you hungry?” 

“I will see to your needs first, as you are my guest,” the Master promised. “I do not often receive visitors, or have the chance to offer them hospitality. Come. Come,” he repeated, heading for the steps. 

The young man stared longingly at the fire, then again at the Master, who stood patiently on the steps, looking back towards him. The Master patted the side of one leg, as if beckoning to a reluctant hound. The young man shouldered his satchel, hugging the light brown leather against his stomach. He obediently followed the Master up the stairs, his eyes never leaving the ground. The Master checked behind himself several times on the stairs to make certain the quiet, timid young man continued to follow him. 

Near to the top of the tower, the Master pushed open an ancient door. It creaked mightily to allow entrance into the spacious but chilly room which was dominated by a four-poster bed and heavy, ornately-carved wooden furniture. The wives had outdone themselves. The quarters had been cleaned, dusted, fluffed, and set with every comfort one could desire. The Master flicked a glance at the fireplace, and flames quickened to obey the command. They licked at the logs, rising to a pleasant glow. The young man was dazzled by what he saw. 

“It’s so extravagant. It’s too nice. I really don’t mean to be any trouble,” he stammered, eyes on the floor. “I could bunk down in the stables, or on a couch in a study. Do you have a library, perhaps?" 

It happened again. Suddenly the Master was fighting the urge, the need to reach forward and touch the young man once more, to soothe, to offer comfort, to offer consolation. He usually deplored weakness or vulnerability in a male, but in this young man, it made the Master feel protective. All manner of unfamiliar desires were rising in him—to protect, to feed, to nurture, to nuzzle. The Master could not remember the last time he wanted to nuzzle anything. 

“Don’t be foolish. We pride ourselves on our hospitality here in Carpathia. In my home as my guest, you will be treated with nothing but exemplary kindness and courtesy. I will send a servant to see to your needs. You may call on me if you require anything at all,” the Master promised. “I bid you goodnight, sir. I’m sorry. I didn’t get your name, young man.” 

“Dr. Reid. Spencer,” the visitor babbled, timidly offering a hand. 

The Master scooped up the thin fingers and brought them to his lips for a gentle kiss. Dr. Reid stared at the him, and the young man blushed vibrantly. The Master realized what he had done, that he was holding that slender hand still. It was exactly the wrong thing to do, the worst thing he could have done, as this was a gentleman, not a lady. But the gesture, a polite peck on the hand, it had seemed to him to be the correct gesture, the proper and courtly thing to do. Now the Master was so disconcerted, so discombobulated, so completely beside himself with chagrin at what he had done, terribly afraid he had offended the young man. The Master hadn’t felt like this in such a long time, so overwhelmed with all these emotions, these highs and lows of feelings. 

Dr. Reid lifted his left hand and gently cradled the Master’s meaty paw between his own thin appendages. 

“My, sir, what cold hands you have!” he observed, rubbing the Master’s limb tenderly. “I did not catch your name either. What should I call you?” 

“I am the Count of Carpathia. My family name is Hotchner. My given name is Aaron. You may address me as ‘my lord’ or ‘Master’.” 

Dr. Reid blinked at the Master several times. He stopped rubbing his hand to warm him, worried he was breaching etiquette. The young man looked terribly surprised. The Master was hoping to cover his own social misstep with a veneer of cool aloofness, but that was all in vain. A tiny curl of amusement was making the very edge of Reid’s thin mouth quiver. That quiver of amusement was making the Master very nervous. 

“I…” the doctor struggled for words. The Master waited for him to speak. “Count Hotchner, my lord, I am in your debt, and I humbly thank you for your kindness and your hospitality. Goodnight, Master.” 

With that, Dr. Reid bowed his head and withdrew a step or two away, keeping his eyes trained on the floor as he waited for the Master’s response. The Master was quiet for several seconds, unsure what to do, heart in his throat, stomach all in knots. Once again, he did an unwise thing. He reached one hand forward across the space between himself and Dr. Reid, and patted the young man gently on the top of his bowed head. His heart exclaimed with delight as his fingers slid through those curls. 

“Goodnight, Doctor,” the Master intoned. Then he turned with a rustle of black silk and fine velvet and silently hurried from the room. 

At least for now.


	5. 4 - The Necromancer

Hours later, the Master was in the open room at the top of the tallest tower, staring out over the forests as the fog and the low clouds joined forces with the storm above, and a bone-penetrating dampness began to fall. He didn’t mind. He enjoyed the storm, reveled in the thunder, anticipated each crash of lightning. It was as if the skies were performing for his amusement alone. Off in the distance, he could hear wolves howling to one another. 

He had left his guest alone, gone out into the night to feed his hunger, and returned once more to his ancestral home, only to discover that in spite of his full stomach, he remained unfulfilled. He knew in his heart of heart what he was longing for, but while one half of his being urged him forward, forward, to go and take what it was that he desired, the other half cautioned him that he should proceed slowly, for fear of startling the quarry. 

But how he longed to go into the guest room and climb into the silken sheets with the young man who was lying there! Or maybe he could linger outside the window and watch the young man while he was sleeping. No, probably shouldn’t do that. The Master did not want to terrify his intriguing guest. 

Thankfully, the wives had not yet returned. They three were making the most of their freedom for the night. The castle remained at peace, opening her courtyards and towers and grounds to welcome the rain that fell. The Master was not entirely alone in the tower though. He sensed that someone was moving around below, and he knew that he ought to go and investigate the stirring noises. 

The Master continued to stare out into the storm, drawing his dark cloak around himself as an autumn chill pervaded the stone room at the top of the tower. The door behind him slid slowly open, to the grind of metal on metal, and the creak of old wood across stone. 

“Master? Master, I hate to disturb you, but the visitor in the guest room?” 

It was his servant, Rosu, a twisted hunchback he had taken in some years ago because the man had a keen wit and a biting sarcasm that matched the Master’s own dark moods. Rosu was ambling towards the Master in a rolling gait that left one arm dragging the ground and another curled tight to his chest. The Master turned to face Rosu, glaring down at him impatiently. 

“Yes, Rosu, what about him?” 

“He is wandering about the castle. I’ve followed him around the main hall, the kitchens, the sitting rooms, and the library. He stayed there quite a while. He seemed drawn to that room.” 

“There is no harm in allowing him in the library, I’m sure,” the Master murmured with a thin smile, remembering the smell of old books which had lingered around the young man. 

“I would not disturb you, my lord, but he is no longer in the library,” Rosu relayed the message, then cringed back as fury and concern flared up in the Master’s face. His large shoulders squared back and his chest filled as he inhaled angrily. 

“Where is he, exactly?” the Master demanded. 

“The armament room,” Rosu whimpered. 

The Master whirled away, racing for the door. He passed through the open aperture as a boiling mist, snaked around the tower, hurtling himself downward, downward, falling, flying, curling, racing. He materialized in corporeal form at the breached portal to the armament room, and stormed through the door, aflame with fury. 

Dr. Reid was sitting in the middle of the floor, legs folded underneath himself. A lantern sat on the carpet beside him, illuminating only the stuffed heads that were within the ball of light, but that was horrible enough to have struck the young man dumb where he sat, eyes wide, mouth pulled tight together in a small dash of red. He was balled up in an inky purple, velvet robe, the ends of which pooled around him on the floor. As the Master flew across the room at him, the young man remained in place, staring up at him in disquieted confusion. The Master stopped only barely short of him, drawing himself up to a frightening height and size. 

“What are you doing in here?!” the Master bellowed. 

Reid whispered, “The storm woke me, and I could not sleep. I could hear their voices, whispering to me, pleading with me to help them, to put an end to their indignity. I searched everywhere in the castle until I found the voices.” 

Dr. Reid pointed towards the wall, and then dropped his hand. He turned his eyes away from the horrors, and down to the carpet. He fingered the handle of the lantern, as if considering for a moment whether or not he should throw it at the Master. He pulled his long hands together over his lap, and twisted them with dread and nervousness. 

“Do you mean to kill me too, Master?” he whispered. 

The response should have been ‘yes’. The response should have been a dagger through the heart. The response should have been to rip this intruding boy limb from limb, and drink his blood while his heart was still beating. But whatever it was about the young man, the Master felt paralyzed again. The moment Dr. Reid raised his eyes, the Master found he could do nothing but obey the silent plea for mercy. 

The Master pulled off his own cloak, wrapped it around the young man’s shoulders, and drew him to his feet. 

“Dr. Reid, you should not be here.” 

“Where are you taking me?” 

“To bed,” the Master answered truthfully. Perhaps in the morning the young man could be convinced this had been a terrible nightmare. The Master promised he would make certain that every last one of the trophies hanging on this wall was gone. He would take them down himself if he had to. 

Rosu greeted them at the open door as the Master guided Dr. Reid through and into the hallway. The hunchback servant was wearing a curious smile. 

“How interesting,” Rosu whispered as the Master led the doctor along. 

“What is that?” the Master growled, not in the mood for sarcasm or humor. 

“Our guest, Master. Is he truly a necromancer? A sorcerer who speaks with the dead?” 

The Master stared at the hunchback, and then at the young man, whose wrist he held in such a tight grip that he must be bruising him. The doctor would not look him in the eyes. Reid turned away, sucking in his bottom lip, eyes glazed with fear and loathing. 

“Do not speak of such nonsense,” the Master ordered. “See that the room is cleared by morning.” 

“Cleared, my lord?” 

“Completely. Entirely. Thoroughly,” Count Hotchner snarled, making sure his point was understood. Rosu drew away once more in fear. 

“Yes, Master,” the servant bowed and scraped, moving along into the armament room and closing the door behind himself.


	6. 5 - In the Master's Chamber

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Role Playing Dubious Consent - just to let you know, and also Dark Magic Hypnosis

As the Master was pulling the reluctant but obedient doctor up the tower steps towards the top, ever higher, they did not speak. The raging storm spoke for the Master, expressing his burning rage with each rumble of thunder, each crash of lightning. The Master was casting sideways glances at his guest, chastising himself for being so weak, for even opening the castle doors this evening. The doctor was casting sideways glances back at the Master, unable to believe the man who had been so kind to him, so gracious, so hospitable, was capable of the deeds laid out below in the armament room. Human heads, stuffed, mounted, and displayed for all to see? Dozens of them? Had the Master killed every last one of those people? 

When they did not stop at the guest room, but continued climbing the tower, upward, upward, breathless panic rushed the doctor’s veins. Dr. Reid began to pant with fear and tug in the opposite direction, but he could not break his wrist free of the grip the Master had on it, unless of course he wanted to risk actually breaking his wrist. There was no denying that the Count was angry. There was no denying he deserved every moment of that anger. The doctor should not have been wandering. The doctor should not have opened the armament room. If he could take it back, he would have. If he could unsee what he had seen, he would have! 

They reached the top landing, where there were only two doors to choose from – one which led to the open room at the top of the tower, and the second which led to the Master’s private quarters. While the decision should have been to drag the doctor out onto the top of the tower, and throw him kicking and screaming over the side to his death, the Master could not bring himself to cause this young man harm. The Master opened the door to his private quarters and dragged the doctor inside, threw him bodily against the large bed which dominated the space. 

Reid landed with a thump, sliding off the covers and onto the floor. He balled up under the protection of his own robe and the Master’s dark velvet cloak, and shivered visibly under the foreboding glower on the dark haired man’s face. 

“You and I, we will never again speak of what you saw in that room. Is that clear?” the Count rumbled, standing over the doctor. Reid kept his eyes trained on the floor, and nodded quickly. The Master reached down and took Reid’s chin in one hand, raising his head so he could see his face. “Answer me.” 

“Yes, Master.” 

“Good. Stand.” 

Reid drew himself slowly to his feet, his bare feet, the Master noted, letting his eyes trace up and down the young man. His hair was disheveled, down in his face. Under the Count’s dark black cloak and his own inky, purple robe, he was wearing a thin, white nightshirt which covered him to his knees. The young man looked shaky, vulnerable, delectable. Hotchner could resist temptation no longer. 

The Master drew his black cloak away, tossing it over the end of the bed. Reid quivered in reply. Without a word of explanation, the Master drew away the purple robe, tossing it aside as well. He carded his icy fingers through the doctor’s tousled hair, pushing it back from his face, away from his long elegant neck. Reid shivered as the Master took the end of the thin string that held his nightshirt in place, and tugged. The loop fell free, and the nightshirt loosened, drifting down Reid’s torso, off his hips, and pooling on the carpet. 

The Master reached down and tugged the silken material away from the doctor’s ankles, tossing it not on the end of the bed with the robe and the cloak, but into the fireplace hearth. The moment the nightshirt touched the stones, a flame reached out of nothing and devoured the garment in a bright ball. Ashes fell in a quiet sprinkle to the stones. The flame vanished, leaving the room dark once more, except for the crashes of lighting outside the windows. 

The Master stood up straight and stared down at Reid, and gave a malevolent smile which did nothing to calm the doctor’s racing heart. The young man covered his nakedness with his thin arms and hands. Hotchner was delighted to note that the blush on his face was covering his neck and his torso as well. He could practically smell the blood pulsing beneath the young man’s skin. 

“I believe that should ensure you won’t be wandering the castle for the rest of the night. Get on the bed,” the Master ordered. 

Reid went pale, and then pink again, and struggled to control his frantic breathing. 

“I said get on the bed,” the Master bellowed. 

Reid scrambled backwards onto the covers, sitting with his knees to his chest, his arms folded around his knees. The Master gave another smile, this one much more amused than the first. He reached down and drew back the bedspreads, down-filled duvets, and silken sheets. 

“Under the covers,” he clarified. Reid hurried to obey. 

The Master stared the young man up and down once more, and then began to undress. Reid averted his eyes, blushing furiously, as the Master removed his jacket, his vest, his shirt, and laid them over the end of the bed. The Master slid out of his shoes and trousers, letting his underwear fall as well. He glanced back at the bed, noting that the doctor’s innocent eyes were crawling over him, then darting quickly away again. 

The Master grasped the covers and climbed under as well. He fluffed a pillow and pushed to towards the doctor. 

“Lie down. Close your eyes. Sleep,” he commanded. 

Dr. Reid gave a small snort of almost hysterical panic, or perhaps it had been shocked laughter. The Master sighed his impatience. 

“I won’t harm you. Lie down. Sleep.” 

Dr. Reid continued to stare at him in disbelief, then narrowed his eyes. A tempestuous fury overtook him, driving away all fear for a few seconds. 

“Sir, I don’t know what you think I am, but I am not in the habit of engaging in this sort of indecent behavior with men I have only just met!” 

The Master swelled with excitement and anticipation. The young man’s furious face and incensed eyes stoked a fire in him, no denying the truth. The butterflies in his stomach had been replaced by flaming dragons. The Count lunged forward and wrapped both arms around the doctor and kissed him. Ardently. Mercilessly. Unapologetically. He did not stop kissing Reid until the young man lay underneath him on the bed, panting for breath, squirming with arousal, mouth wet, lashes fluttering. The Master pulled slowly away. The young man had been so utterly surprised by the kiss at first, but now seemed equally as disappointed that it had ended. 

The Master kissed him again, this time more gently but no less ardently. He nibbled along the doctor’s cheek, his earlobe, his jaw. Reid responded by wrapping his arms around Hotchner and pulling him closer still. 

“Oh, aren’t you?” the Master purred in Reid’s ear, reaching down between the doctor’s legs, stroking his growing erection. 

“Not….usually…” Reid panted, pining with pleasure and pain as the Master stroked him. The Master might have had a handful of wives, but it was pretty clear he also knew his way around a man, thank you very much. 

“Reach to your right,” the Master murmured. Reid’s eyes opened, confused. “Reach to your right,” the Master repeated. Reid obeyed, blindly putting out his hand. He encountered a side table, ornate, beautiful. “Lower,” came the next command. Reid found a handle. “Open,” came the next command. Reid obeyed. Inside the drawer, his fingers encountered phials and ampules, and the unmistakable chill of metal shackles. “Do you feel them?” the Master asked. 

“Yes, sir,” Reid gulped. 

“If you don’t shut your eyes, shut your mouth, and go to sleep, I’m going to shackle you to this bed and do all manner of indecent things to you, until you are so exhausted that you can’t keep your eyes open.” 

For only a moment, Reid’s eyes burned with delight and interest. Then the embarrassed shock returned. 

“Who the hell do you think you are?!” Reid gasped in protest. The Master loomed over him, face to face, brushing his nose against the doctor’s cheek. Reid shuddered and closed his eyes for a second, nibbling his lip nervously. The Master retrieved the ice-cold shackles, bringing them onto the bed, teasing the metal across the doctor’s bare chest. 

“Put your hands above your head.” 

Reid did not hesitate. In fact, the speed with which he obeyed surprised both the Master and the doctor himself. Keeping his wide, innocent eyes locked on the Master’s dark scowl, the doctor waited. Hotchner loomed ever closer, dragging the shackles to the head of the bed, linking them first through the bolt on the ornate carved headboard, and then closing both shackles around one wrist. Satisfied that the doctor wasn’t going anywhere until he was freed again, the Master caressed his way down Reid’s arms, drawing his elbows aside in order to stare into his face. 

“Are you afraid?” the Master asked. Reid tilted his eyes above his head, lifted his right wrist in order to examine the shackles with which he was now trapped. 

“No. These are hundreds of years old, and in an extremely fragile state of wear. Given sufficient time, and a small, thin, sharp object, I’m quite sure I could free myself,” the doctor replied calmly, offering up a tiny, thin smile. “If I wanted to,” he added when the Master frowned at him. "I can be afraid, though, if you like that. Shall I scream for you?" 

"God, no," Hotchner groaned. "Please don't." 

The Master leaned down and kissed Reid’s forehead, dotted a kiss on his small nose, whispered and nuzzled across his parted lips. The Master traced the end of his tongue down through the cleft in the young man’s chin. His tongue dropped lower, ran down Reid’s throat, along his neck, across his chest, down his sternum. The doctor’s free hand stayed in the Master’s short, dark hair, sometimes petting, sometimes tugging, sometimes directing him when to lick and kiss next. The Count got the distinct impression he was being nudged downward. 

“Please, sir, what do you mean to do to me?” Reid fretted, biting his bottom lip. 

The Master paused, lifted his head from where he was nuzzling the thin line of sandy body hair which teased across the young man’s abdomen. He lifted one brow, and stared into Reid’s eyes. 

“Haven’t you any idea, young man?” 

“Well, a vague idea,” the young man admitted. “Only a vague one, mind you.” 

“Clearly you should spend less time in my library and more time in my bed,” the Master advised, only to have his brain supply all manner of deviant ways he could take the young man in the library, let alone in this bed. Reid watched as the Master withdrew a particular phial from the drawer, removed the cork, and poured a runny liquid onto his fingers. The hand disappeared down between the doctor’s legs. 

“What do you mean to do with….ohhh!” Reid’s exclamation of surprise brought another smile to the Master’s face. “Sir! I really think you should warn me before you plan to….do that sort of…oh my….it would be only polite….polite….for you to…give me….ooh, ooh, more,” the doctor groaned unexpectedly, shuddering. 

“As you wish,” the Master replied. The introduction of a second finger caused Reid to gasp even louder. The Master curled those two fingers upward and forward, and the doctor began to writhe, pushing, arching, thrusting downward. 

"Please…. Please…” Reid moaned. 

“You beg so sweetly,” the Master purred, bending down to nose his lips against the doctor’s open mouth. “Beg for me. That’s it, my beautiful one. Beg for me.” 

“Please…..oh, oh, Master. Please…” Reid groaned, bucking, arching, riding the Master’s intruding fingers. 

“Tell me what you want,” the Master crooned. 

“More….oh, please, more.” 

“Turn over,” the Master ordered. “Up. Up on your knees.” 

The doctor did his best to obey, though it took some doing, considering that his right arm was shackled above his head. The Master positioned Reid, then pushed the young man’s shoulders to the bed before nudging his thighs apart. The Master slickened his own aching cock, centering himself, leaning gradually down on the young man until he was fully seated inside the tight, velvet heat. For a moment, the Master listened, feeling Reid’s heart racing, his breath stilled, his muscles aching. 

“Master….” the doctor groaned. “Don’t stop.” 

“Is this why you were searching for Professor Gideon? Did you miss his ministrations as much as his company?” the Master asked, withdrawing slowly backwards until only the head of his cock remained inside the young doctor. He waited for the question to sink in. Reid closed his eyes and took a shocked breath at what he was insinuating. 

“No.” 

The Master thrust inside him with a savage strength that made Reid call out in delicious anguish. 

“Is this the real reason you came all the way to Carpathia to find your mentor?” the Master asked again, withdrawing to the edge once more. 

“No,” Reid repeated. Again, the Master thrust inside him, holding his hips for another thrust, another, another. 

“You would not lie to me, would you, my beautiful one?” 

“No, my lord,” Reid gasped, promised. His honesty was rewarded with another thrust, and a nip on the back of the neck, meant to hold him very still. The Master dominated the young man, rode him at a steady pace that had Reid clawing at the headboard, the silken sheets. His free hand reached back, clasping the Master’s hip with a vice-like grip. The sandy, auburn ringlets fell into his face. The Master buried his nose into those sweat-dampened curls, lapping behind the young man’s ear, suckling his earlobe. Reid’s free hand slid up into the Master’s short, dark hair. 

“ ‘No, Master, I will never lie to you’,” the Master whispered in Reid’s ear as he dominated him. “Say the words. Say them,” he commanded. 

“No, Master, I….” Reid panted, moaning, quivering in the Master’s grip. He was struggling to obey. 

“Say the words,” the Master repeated, nipping his neck, nipping his shoulder, letting free a tiny trickle of red which he lapped away with a teasing tongue. He tasted positively exquisite. “ ‘No, Master. I will never lie to you. No, Master. I will never deceive you. No, Master, there will never be anyone but you.’ Say the words.” 

“Master….” Reid pleaded as orgasm shook his body. “No one…but you…..” 

The Master said no more, losing himself in his lust, crying out in ecstasy as he found his own release. The storms overhead echoed in his brain as he lay panting against the young man imprisoned in his grip. He ached to sink his teeth into the pale shoulder under him, to draw the life’s blood from the young man one sweet mouthful at a time. He wouldn’t have to move an inch to do so. But he stopped himself. 

When Reid had recovered his senses, the doctor turned over slowly under the Master’s heavy form, nestling into a more comfortable position, no doubt. They were nearly the same height, but Hotchner had at least twenty pounds on the thin doctor. The Master dotted kisses against Reid’s neck, along his jaw, and finally, against his soft lips. 

“Are you sleepy yet?” the Master questioned. Hazel brown eyes studied him. The doctor was wide awake. How annoying. There was really no choice but to use his ancient magic. “Look deep into my eyes, ” the Master murmured. 

All emotion drained from Dr. Reid’s face but for curious puzzlement. His lids drooped. Lashes flashed like fans. He gave a kittenish yawn and sniffled softly before giving into the Count’s powerful spell. 

“That’s it. Rest,” the Master murmured, drawing the young man into his arms and holding him close. He was feeling quite sleepy himself actually. It wouldn't hurt to take a few minutes and....


	7. 6 - Night and Day

Morning came to the castle on the top of the cliffs. Morgan the Coachman had returned. He was waiting at the gates, peering through, wondering what to think when Rosu came bouncing out to greet him. The hunchback wore a wide smile, and his limbs jangling with glee as he opened the gates to greet the Coachman. 

“I’m here to retrieve the young gentleman that I brought here last night.” 

“I’m not sure the Master is going to permit that,” Rosu replied. 

Morgan nodded, once, twice, and moved away to get back on the coach. 

“Shall I return tomorrow for him?” he asked. Was that a glimmer of regret? 

“I’m not sure the Master will permit that either,” Rosu grinned. 

“What does the Master require of me?” the Coachman asked. 

“Go to the head of the path, and see that no one disturbs the Master today,” Rosu answered. “He is sleeping.” 

“Is he?” the Coachman asked, surprised. 

“Like a baby,” Rosu grinned. 

“Is the young gentlemen alive?” the Coachman asked, closing his eyes, not sure he wanted to answer. Rosu blinked at him. 

“But of course he is!” the servant replied quickly, sharply. “The Master has developed quite a fondness for his guest. I have no doubt he welcomes his company.” 

This unexpected news brought a hint of a smile to the Coachman’s grim face. Rosu locked the gates and continued to speak from inside the castle grounds. “Is there anyone in the village who could go to the ravine by the medieval church and retrieve the bones that lie there?” 

“I’m sure there is,” Morgan said, tipping his hat to Rosu. 

“The Master wishes to have the bones brought to the castle right away,” the hunchback said. 

“As you wish,” the Coachman said, turning his steeds around and heading back into the rising dawn. 

By nightfall, the Coachman returned. He stopped by the front gate. Rosu was there again to greet him. This time, the hunchback was carrying a torch. The Coachman tossed a rag-knotted bundle at his feet. A femur poked out both sides of the rags which could have been the remains of a woolen suit jacket. A small rib escaped the bundle and clattered on the stone path. A skull rested on the top of the bundle. The Coachman tossed down another package. It was a black valise, much like a medical doctor’s bag, much weathered for having spent nearly ten months out in the elements. 

“Who is this?” Rosu asked. 

“The man who was at the bottom of the ravine.” 

“What is that?” Rosu wondered, giving the valise a nudge with his foot. 

“That belonged to the man at the bottom of the ravine. I thought the Master would want to take a look at it. Although his bones were difficult to retrieve, I think the bag has been tampered with very recently. Curious. Until tomorrow,” the Coachman said, tipping his hat and disappearing once more along the path. 

Rosu retrieved the rib bone, stuck it back into the bundle of bones, snatched up the bundle, picked up the valise with the same hand, and hurried back into the castle in his rolling, bouncing gait. The valise scraped the ground with each step. 

The Master was in the dining room. The visitor was seated to the Master’s right hand. The Master was dressed elegantly for dinner. The visitor was wearing a velvet purple dressing gown, and looked as if he had yet to comb his hair. The Master did not seem to notice when Rosu entered the long, thin room. The Master only had eyes for his visitor. The young man sat scrunched in his seat, looking pleased, and dazed, and frankly a bit sore. 

The hunchback bounced and rolled up to the head of the table, dropping the bundle of bones and the valise. 

“Master….” Rosu crooned, backing up, bowing, backing up again. 

The Master tore his dark eyes off the visitor, and gave them to Rosu for a moment. 

“Yes, Rosu?” 

“The bones, my lord. The bones of the man at the bottom of the ravine near the ancient church. You asked that they be retrieved, and so they have been,” Rosu reminded him, bowing again, pointing to the bundle of bones. 

The Master’s face was a second into pure joy but Dr. Reid’s eyes fell onto the bones, particularly on the skull on top. The visitor breathed heavily, once, twice, and drew his legs up into his chair, burying his face in his knees. When he began to sob, the Master’s joy vanished like mist in the sunlight. Guilt pervaded every inch of his being. He reached over and stroked the top of Reid’s head, tracing fingers through his hair again. 

“Take the bones away,” the Master commanded. “Do not lose them, mind you. We shall decide later what will be done with him.” 

“Yes, Master,” Rosu grinned. “What of the valise, Master?” 

Dark eyes lingered for a moment on the small, weather-beaten attaché. Dr. Reid sniveled softly, raised his head, and stared at the bag as well. The Master studied the young man’s tear-stained face, watched his eyes fill with trepidation. 

“Do you wish to have this as a remembrance of your former mentor?” Hotchner asked. 

Dr. Reid did not speak. He lowered his eyes and turned away, shaking with fear. 

“What is it about this bag that so disturbs you?” the Master questioned. He reached over down and released the locked handle of the valise. It opened like a large fish mouth, creaked as if in pain. A foul odor permeated the room. He nudged the valise with one shoe. “Nothing inside but shards of glass. Broken beakers and phials. No reason to be afraid of a suitcase.” 

Dr. Reid’s tears dried with a surprised gasp. He leaned forward and peered into the bag, then up at the Master. It would have been impossible to conceal his surprise at the fact the bag was almost empty. Reid gulped loudly and drew back up in his chair with nervous fear. 

“There should be more inside? What did you expect to find?” the Master asked. Reid shook his head, would offer no answer. “No matter,” the Master decided. “Rosu, take the valise away with the bones, but do not lose them.” 

“I want his bones,” Reid said suddenly. “Please, Master. I want his bones.” 

“For what dark purpose, I wonder,” the Master pondered, putting his elbow on the edge of his armrest, and leaning back to study the young man more closely. “Very well. Rosu , destroy the valise, but leave the bones here.” 

“Yes, Master,” Rosu bowed, snatching up the valise and hurrying away again. 

Once they were alone, the Master reached over and dried the young man’s cheek. 

“No more tears. Finish your dinner.” 

“I’m not hungry,” Reid whimpered, staring forlornly at his soup. His eyes traveled back to the bundle of bones, particularly to the skull that laid askew on the top. 

“You’ll need your strength,” the Master murmured, dark eyes filled with lust as he studied the young man. “Eat every drop. This very moment.” 

Reid’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not hungry.” 

“Shall I feed you?” the Master murmured, sitting closer, picking up the spoon, dipping it into the bowl of broth. He lifted the spoon to the young man’s mouth, and waited. Reid opened his bruised lips, and sipped the spoonful of soup. “Good boy. Another?” the Master cooed. 

The bowl of soup was finished in no time. The Master put the spoon aside, and reached for the goblet of wine, which he held to the doctor’s lips. Once the wine was drained away, the Master searched the covered dishes to see what else was available. He discovered a tray of perfect, ripe berries. He smiled, pulling the tray to himself. 

“Would you like dessert?” he asked. The young man stared at him in distrust, blushing red. “Come,” the Master beckoned, patting his lap. Reid frowned at him disdainfully. “Now,” the Master repeated, giving him a stern scowl. 

Reid slid out of his chair and walked slowly to stand beside the Master’s chair. The Master drew the young doctor into his lap, spread his stiff legs wide. Hotchner nuzzled Reid’s mouth when the young man gasped softly in pain. The Master’s hands were running over the places on his hips and legs where he was bruised from last night’s goings-on. 

“Stay,” the Master commanded when Reid squirmed. 

The Count pulled the purple robe slowly down the young man’s back, and nuzzled his bare chest tenderly, kissing, licking, sucking each nipple as the doctor whimpered. The Master moved forward, nestling their bodies tightly together. 

“Please, sir?” the doctor whimpered. 

“Yes?” 

“Could you turn him away?” 

“What?” 

Reid pointed to the bundle of bones and averted his eyes. The Master reached out, turning the skull and the bones around to face the other direction. 

“Thank you,” Reid whispered. 

“You are quite welcome,” the Master purred, pulling him closer, running both hands up his back. A string of whimpers escaped that beautiful mouth. The Master nuzzled those lips, worshipped them with touches so gentle. More whimpers emerged. These were tinged with pleasure. The Master was teasing their erections together through their clothes (well, his clothes and the doctor’s robe). 

The doctor groaned in reply, eyes closed, mouth open. The Master plucked a berry from the tray, and brushed the round, ripe fruit to the young man’s mouth, letting Reid draw it from his fingertips. The doctor nibbled and swallowed, still rocking in time with each caress the Master graced him with. Another berry disappeared. Another. Reid’s hands came forward and rested on the Master’s shoulders. He kissed the Count’s neck, sucking tenderly on his earlobe. 

“Tell me, how long have you been able to do what you?” the Master murmured. Reid straightened up, biting his bottom lip. 

“What do you mean, exactly?” Reid bluffed. 

“Hear the voices of the dead.” 

“Oh, that,” Reid chuckled grimly, reaching for the tie knotted tightly at Hotchner’s throat. “I have always had the ability,” he replied, his eyes full of nervousness. 

“Your professor discovered your talents and was honing them for his own purposes, I don’t doubt,” the Master decided, fingers dancing up the young man’s spine. 

“I should give him a proper burial,” Reid begged. 

“I understand completely how you feel, “the Master murmured. “Once we have finished dinner, we will adjourn upstairs and discuss the matter very thoroughly.” 

There was rebellion in Dr. Reid’s amber eyes. It wasn't a direct refusal, but the young man could clearly read between the lines. However, he acquiesced with a polite nod, nipping at the Master’s shoulder. 

“As you wish,” he whispered. 

“For right now, I think you should adjourn to your own seat, before we’re both naked and writhing under the table, or on top of it,” the Master suggested with a devilish smile, patting Reid’s thigh and taking his nimble fingers away from his tie, motioning him back to his own chair. 

“But…” the doctor protested. Hotchner gave him a sharp look. Reid obeyed the command, pulling his rumpled robe back around himself and retreating to his seat. He bit his mouth closed, giving the Master a timid, sideways look. In reply, the Master reached over and patted his arm. 

“I wonder where the wives are this evening,” the Master murmured. Reid was in the process of pouring himself a cup of tea. He had to set the small china pot back down when his hands started to shake. 

“Wives?” he breathed. 

“No doubt they had so much fun last night that they decided to slip out tonight as well. It would be prudent to err on the side of caution, though, and keep you close. You don’t mind sharing my bed again, do you? It’s for your own protection, really. If they should happen upon you in the dark, in your room, alone, they would happily make a meal of you.” 

Reid finished pouring his tea, and gave the Master a sideways look. He picked up the delicate cup, took a careful sip, and gave the Master a faint smile. The enticing scent of cardamom, cinnamon, and cloves filled the air, flowing on the trails of steam which rose from the cup. 

“Once we have given Professor Gideon a proper burial, we can discuss the matter of our sleeping arrangements more thoroughly,” Reid replied, taking another sip. 

“I see,” the Master mused. Reid teased out another smile, this one a bit wider.


	8. 7 - Gideon's Bones

“If you have no desire to roam about tonight, I will take him into the woods myself. Point me in the direction of this chapel of yours, and I will take care of him myself, and return when the deed is done. Professor Gideon deserves a proper burial,” the doctor whispered in the darkness. 

The Master and his guest had finished dinner more than an hour ago, and had adjourned to the open room at the top of the tallest stone tower. While the Master was accustomed to standing here for hours when his darkest moods took him, staring out into the night, Reid kept glancing around the stone walls and floors, as if wondering where all the furniture was. He had planted himself on the cold floor, and was hugging his knees to keep warm. The doctor stared at the bundle of bones beside his feet, and up at the Master, who was eyeing him with equal parts hunger and amusement. 

“You may do as you please with Gideon’s bones,” the Count responded, pretending to be bored with the topic. Odd, since he had spent the last several minutes talking about how unsafe it was to wander in the woods at night, how it was really a matter best left to Morgan or to Rosu. 

“You lied to me about how he died,” Reid replied. There was no accusation in his voice, only calmness and certainty. The Master felt shamed, and it showed. 

“Forgive me for the deception. I had hoped to spare your feelings. No, Gideon did not slip into the ravine. I am the one who pushed him to his death. I killed your mentor when I caught him trying to dig up my wife,” the Master responded smoothly and gracefully. 

“Which one?” the doctor puzzled. “I thought you said they were out for the night,” he reminded as he lifted his head from his knees and scooted across the cold stone floor in order to examine the bones more closely. 

“My first wife. Your professor was in my family crypt, attempting to disinter my dearest Haley.” 

“Why would he do such a thing as that?” 

“Maybe you should ask him?” the Master answered with a droll smirk. 

“ ‘He killed me’. That’s all Professor Gideon has said so far. He keeps repeating that, over and over. He’s very angry with you. Could you have mistaken his intentions?” 

“He had a shovel and a pick-axe, and he was chipping away at her headstone.” 

“Oh,” Reid said in a small voice. “Very few ways to interpret that. You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” he added, staring down at the bones, particularly the skull. 

“So where do you propose we deposit your mentor?” 

“I would like to bury him in the churchyard where you found him that fateful night. Then he might have the chance to find whatever it is he was looking for,” the doctor suggested as he pulled himself slowly and painfully to his feet. “He never liked leaving a puzzle unresolved, a case open. Are there any empty plots?” 

“I am quite sure we could find room for him in one of the crypts under the chapel. If we were to disturb the earth, that might draw curious eyes, but no one will notice a few extra bones in a space in a wall.” 

“My final duty to Gideon will be to grant him eternal rest, so that his spirit will not wander in torment for eternity.” 

“What do you for Gideon? What did you do for Gideon?” the Master amended. 

“My degrees are in Chemistry, Physics, Mathematics, Psychology, Sociology, and Philosophy. I worked in whatever capacity the Professor required of me, often in locating the bodies in the cases he was trying to resolve. He would not take me into the field, thought I was more helpful in the library, doing research for him. This is the first time....first time I've actually ventured out on my own,” he added, giving a quiet laugh at whatever private thought was amusing him. 

“You worked as his spiritualist too?” 

“Yes.” 

“Do you really believe that nonsense?” 

“What?” 

“Do you really believe that restless spirits walk the world around us?” 

“I do, sir. I do indeed.” 

“Why don’t they go to Heaven, or conversely, go to Hell, when they are released from their corporeal prisons?” 

“Unfinished business keeps them here.” 

“My wife isn’t here.” 

“Which one?” 

“My first wife, Haley.” 

“How do you know she isn’t here?” 

“She’s never tried to speak to me.” 

“Maybe she’s mad at you. Maybe she knows you don't believe in ghosts, and if she appears to you, you will dismiss her presence as the wind, or a cold spot in a room, or an illusory deception of light and air and melancholy. It could be she has appeared to you, and you have ignored her entirely.” 

“Don’t be cheeky with me, young man.” 

“Yes, Master.” 

“You want to bury your professor, do you?” 

“Yes, sir. Please, sir. He deserves at least that much.” 

“All right then. Bring him along. I will see you safely there and back.” 

“Wait,” the doctor protested. 

“What?” the Master asked impatiently. 

“Perhaps it has escaped your notice, but I’m naked under this robe,” Reid murmured. 

“It has not escaped my notice, I assure you. I can’t seem to think of anything besides. Why should your nakedness matter?” 

“Sir, I absolutely will not be traipsing around a churchyard in the dead of night in my all-together. If you would be so kind as to spare me ten minutes, I should like to pull on some clothes. If I may. Please.” 

“If you continue to take that tone with me, young man,” the Master threatened, stepping closer, caressing the doctor’s chin with one long finger. 

“Yes?” Reid questioned, gulping loudly. 

“Then it will take you a good deal longer than ten minutes to pull yourself together,” the Master whispered in a deep, rich rumble. 

“Please forgive my tone, Master,” the doctor whispered back. The Count gave a slow smile, dotting the tiniest kiss to Reid’s bruised lips. 

“All is forgiven, my beautiful one. Go get dressed.” 

“Do I have time for a bath?” 

“Do not dally too long. You are burning precious moonlight,” the Master sighed. 

“It’s a lovely view,” the doctor replied, casting his eyes over the tower walls and beyond. 

“Yes, it is,” the Master agreed, his eyes all over Reid. The young man could not help but notice. 

“Can you see the churchyard from here?” Reid squinted. 

“It is there, past the stand of ancient pines, heading towards the river that runs through the ravines in the valley.” 

“May we explore the chapel while we’re there?” he asked. "I love history. I find it very fascinating.” 

“I will give you a tour of the building, and the churchyard, and even the catacombs if it pleases you, but you must hurry. We cannot be out and about when the sun comes over the horizon.” 

“Why not?” the doctor asked. The Master gave him an impatient look. “Oh. So that part of the legend is true?” 

“Yes.” 

“I thought….about dinner…I thought…” 

“We can still crave and eat normal food, but we crave blood besides.” 

“How long have you been…er…. hanging around, so the speak?” the doctor asked. 

“Hundreds of years,” the Master answered. “I have seen centuries of conflict and upheaval. The relative calm we enjoy now seems quaint and boring by comparison.” 

“Some would appreciate the peace.” 

“It’s only temporary. Don’t get attached. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my time, it’s that mankind neither appreciates nor aspires towards peace.” 

“I could learn a lot from you,” the doctor decided in a soft whisper. “If you were willing to teach me?” 

“If you are willing to be taught,” the Master replied sternly. 

“I’m very willing to learn,” the doctor assured him. The Master caressed his chin again with one long finger. 

“Oh, the things I could teach you,” the Master purred. Reid’s expressive eyes lit up with interest and delight. “But why aren’t you afraid of me? Worried that I might hurt you? Concerned that I might one day lose my temper and kill you?” 

In reply, the doctor crossed the space between them, and dotted a small kiss on the Master’s cold lips. 

“Perhaps your lack of fear should concern me. Should I be concerned that you might wish to finish the job that your mentor started? Put a stake through me and my wives? Is that your plan? You can try….” the Count purred happily, his eyes glowing with challenge. 

“You mistake me, Master," Reid replied finally. "I have no such malevolent impulses. I'm non-confrontational. You'll find I am rather 'live and let live'. I will never repay your kindness with betrayal. Can you promise the same?” 

“Of course,” Hotchner blushed, his earlier eagerness dissolving in the face of such a polite rebuke. “It goes without saying. I promise I will never harm you, so long as you never harm me or my wives.” 

“I’m a very peaceful man by nature,” Dr. Reid murmured. “Hopefully there is much I can teach you as well.” 

Another polite rebuke. The Master accepted it with a quick deep chuckle. 

“You must hurry, my precious, and burn no more moonlight, or I will have no choice but to take you into the forest in that robe and nothing else,” he answered.


	9. The Chapel in the Woods

The Master and the doctor stood outside the black metal fence and gates which surrounded the small chapel and graveyard. The site was in a shocking state of disrepair, but the disgrace into which it had fallen gave it such an aching beauty, bathed in moonlight and mist and shadows. The exterior of the tiny church was overrun with vines and trees. It was as if the small stone building was sliding back into history with a quiet, resigned sigh, ready to slip off the cliff into the river ravine below. The uneven tombstones, statuary, and mausoleums were like flotsam and jetsam from a sinking ship, bobbing in an uneven, undulating rocky field overgrown with trees, grass, bushes, and wild flowers. 

“The building has been here for centuries. It was in this state when I played in these forests as a boy. The priests who built the chapel centuries ago used stones from the area.” 

“What is it called?” Reid asked. 

“Capela în Padure.” 

“Which means what?” 

“Chapel in the Woods. Any names it has borne besides that have disappeared into the tides of history. The chapel was built on a site that was holy before God came to Carpathia, a site used for the worship of many pagan deities and heathen spirits of the forest,” the Master said as he parted the gate and bid the doctor to walk through. 

“Cah-pellah en pah-dooray,” Reid repeated softly to himself as he strolled slowly up the grass-covered stone pathway. “I should very much like to learn Romanian, if you will teach me? What is the significance of the female face in the leafy motifs around the top of the portal to the chapel?” 

“What?” the Master asked, glancing forward and upward. “I hadn’t thought there was any significance beyond decoration. She is an angel or a cherub.” 

“No, sir, I doubt it. Pagan figures are often concealed in and around Christian churches. Symbols of the elder religions live on, hidden in seemingly-harmless decorations. For example, Great Britain has many beautiful examples of churches that were decorated with pre-Christian pagan symbols -- the Green Man, oak Leaves, holly branches, Herne the Hunter in the guise of a stag, also the Sheela Na Gig. But her, our lady, she is not a Sheela, nor related I should think, because she’s not baring her genitalia to us. No. She must be a local goddess – a lady of the hunt, since we’re in a forest? Her face seems rounded, which again draws to mind a fertility goddess. Or it could be she is meant to be peering down at us from the moon? Is there a local goddess of fertility or of the moon?” 

The Master frowned at Reid, and whispered to him, “We were never openly taught about such things. The priests forbade it. It would have been considered blasphemy to be curious about such things as that.” 

“Isn’t it a pity how much useful information is lost out of the fear of knowledge? I should very much like to know who she is,” Reid whispered. He fell silent as he put a hand down to his side and shifted the satchel that he carried. The light brown leather was bulging with Gideon’s bones. Because there was no more room in the pouch, Reid carried Gideon’s skull in his hands, cradling it against his chest as he walked. 

“Be careful what you say, Doctor. My life was once devoted to the Faith. I battled Muslim Turks in defense of Christianity,” the Count murmured. 

“But I doubt, my lord, that you continue maintain such obedient fervor for a faith that turned its back on you when you became unholy in its eyes,” Reid replied. “How could you continue to show devotion, when the priests you killed for, the priests your men died for, sent other men to hunt and kill you in return for your obedience and your devotion?” 

“Well noted,” the Master acknowledged. 

“I understand.” 

“How could you possibly have any idea how it feels to be abandoned by your faith, a faith you were willing to kill and to die for? What I have done in the name of God? What I have lost in the name of God?” the Count rumbled as the doctor slid a hand over one tombstone edge as they made their way to the chapel. 

“There is no God, sir. We have only ourselves to blame for what we do to each other. It’s time we accept our own guilt, and stop blaming fairy tales and ancient shadows for the evil that we do.” 

As he said these words, Dr. Reid held the skull up in one palm, turning the empty eye sockets to face the Master. Hotchner frowned coldly at him. 

“You don’t believe in God? You don’t believe in Heaven or Hell?” the Count demanded. 

“No, Master. I do not.” 

“There are words for people like you,” the Master growled malevolently. 

“Atheist?” the doctor offered. 

“Heretic. Once upon a time, Dr. Reid, I’m quite sure I could have put the fear of God into you,” the Count whispered, moving close to his guest and staring him down. The doctor stopped and stood straighter. 

“Fear, certainly. But how could you possibly believe terror is an appropriate method for indoctrinating a non-believer into your faith? Once the threat of danger is over, why would I continue to believe in your faith? You can make me believe only if you continue to threaten me, and that, my lord, is coercion, not religion. Worship must be freely-given, or it’s not worship. What you speak of is fear, yes, but not fear of God. That is fear of man, and it is not a religious faith.” 

“Such blasphemy,” the Master gasped playfully, his humor returning. 

“Though perhaps the fear of man is a religion after all," the doctor pondered, lost in thought. "It is much practiced around the world. Many are forced to kneel before it and swear their allegiance, for if they do not, they will fall prey to the sword or the bullet, these days.” 

“You surprise me, Dr. Reid.” 

“Pleasantly, I hope,” Reid frowned, and then he tipped sideways to peer behind the Master. The Count looked back over his own shoulder and into the night. 

“What is it?” the Master asked. 

“I thought I saw someone in the shadows,” Reid replied, putting a hand into the satchel that he carried. He shifted through Gideon’s bones and withdrew a pistol. Hotchner took a step back and watched in concern as the doctor checked to make certain the chambers of the revolver were all filled. 

“Do you mean to shoot whatever you saw?” he asked. 

“I don’t mean to shoot anything that doesn’t attack us first, but there’s no harm in being cautious.” 

“How reassuring,” the Master chuckled grimly. “I don’t see anything, and I assure you, I have very good night vision.” 

“I imagine you do,” Reid agreed. He pocketed the pistol for the time being. 

“Let us hurry, nonetheless,” the Master advised. “It is folly to remain out in the open this way.” 

Reid reached out his free hand and caressed another tombstone, drawing long, thin fingers delicately over the carved wing of the stone angel figure which stood weeping there. 

“Do you feel them as I do?” he asked the Master. 

“You don’t believe in God, but you believe in ghosts?” the Count teased in reply. 

“Master, I am a very rational man. I have never seen God. How could I possibly believe in something I cannot see?” Reid whispered back. 

“Wind. Gravity. Love?” the Master offered. 

“I can feel the wind, and therefore I know it is real. We are all subject to gravity, whether we believe in it or not. As for love, do you mean the act or the emotion?” 

“Does that matter?” 

“Most assuredly. I have been moved by love, though it would be folly, as you say, to confuse all love as only one love, that being carnal love. Are there not other kinds of love to be felt? The Greeks recognized many types of love. Agape - the purest of loves, unconditional, devotional. Philia - the love of friends and community. Storge - the love of family, as that of parents for their children. Who is to say if those loves are not more meaningful than Eros - the transient, brief spark that burns between two people who are mating? I would argue that a love of community, a love of family, a love of humankind in general keeps society together, sets boundaries of acceptable behavior, and they are far more important than the emotions which bring two people together for the purpose of continuing the species.” 

There were words stuck in the Master’s throat, and a smile tossed over half his mouth. 

"You've never been in love then, have you, young man? Eros? Transient? Some would argue that when we fall in love, truly fall in love, that emotion can transcend decades, centuries, eternity. When two souls truly connect with one another....." 

"Yes?" Reid whispered, his keen eyes searching the Master very hungrily. The Master saw the truth then - Reid had been in love before, but no one had ever returned his affections. He had felt only unrequited love. The Master suddenly felt so very sorry for the young man. 

“So you believe in love, and you believe in ghosts? But you don’t believe in God? Have you ever seen a ghost?” The Master wondered. When Reid nodded, Hotchner could not turn away from the distant look in the young doctor’s eyes. 

“I saw my first ghost when I was a child in my crib. I was teethed on the finger bone of spiritualism, because it was always pointing in my face. I could not ignore the spirits. Once they were everywhere, in every shadow, in every crevice, in every doorway, in every tree. In every house where I dared to cross the threshold, some unsavory, unpleasant, unfriendly, or unhappy shade waited for me. It almost drove me mad. For many years, I did not speak of it. I shut my eyes. I bid them to vanish. But they would not obey. Professor Gideon taught me how to block them from my mind until I wished to see them.” 

“How?” 

“With an Eastern philosophy called meditation, and by teaching me to concentrate my thoughts on other things.” 

“Such as?” 

“Music. History. Philosophy. Literature. I have banned many a spirit by reciting Shakespeare, Spenser, Mozart, and Beethoven.” 

“Why did you not speak to someone before Gideon about what you saw?” 

“My mother.” 

“What of her?” 

“She saw them too. She spoke of them. She spoke to them. My father had committed her to an asylum for speaking about what she was seeing. He threatened to do the same to me. I haven’t seen my mother since I was ten. I don’t know where she is, how she is, if she is. She was dragged away for daring to give voice to the very ability that I myself had exhibited but never shared with her. I told no one what I could see, because I knew the same fate waited for me if I opened my mouth and told the truth.” 

“How did Professor Gideon find out about your abilities?” the Master asked as he removed the long-handled axe which had been placed between the ancient door handles. He heaved open the heavy wooden portals to the small chapel. He led the melancholy doctor into the small stone structure, leaving the axe by the entrance. 

“In our initial meeting at the university, I spoke to his wife. She was following him, you see, and quite impossible to ignore. She told me all about him, and I relayed what she had said. Gideon had spoken to very few people about losing his wife, and had never mentioned to anyone his emotions over his distant relationship with his estranged son. When I told him how upset his wife was that father and son were not on speaking terms, Gideon was entranced. He hired me on the spot to join his team.” 

Reid stopped speaking, gaping around, truly taken aback by the beauty that lay before him. Moonlight poured through the windows and the open roof as they passed along the nave and entered into the transept. The ancient stone floor was scattered with leaves and dirt and ash. More than that though, Reid sniffed the air, and seemed to withdrew deeper within his thin overcoat. 

“There has been a murder here. Two murders. Most recently.” 

The Master sniffed the air as well. He could indeed detect the stench of burned flesh, and a familiar tinge of wild flowers. Was he imagining that? Was the doctor influencing what the Master could detect on the wind? Somehow directing what he should be finding there? 

Their movement caused night creatures to stir. An owl took flight from the altar, narrowly missed the Master’s shoulders, and headed out into the night through the open doors. Mice danced across the floors and vanished into nothingness. Leaves and vines caressed them as they walked past. 

“There’s a chill in the air just here,” Reid whispered, pausing by the windows, blowing away dust and ash. He shivered as he touched the glass. There were nail scratches in the pane, running down the wall and to the floor. 

“What is it?” the Master asked. Reid was caressing the stone sill under the scratched windows. He took a quick step back from the spot where he was standing, and faced the Count. 

“I’m not seeing anyone. But I don’t think we should linger long here,” he answered. “There are uneasy spirits about, though they will not show themselves. Quickly, sir. Where is your wife?” Reid asked, sidestepping the marker on the floor which designated that the space below held the mortal remains of a holy knight. “Excuse me, sire,” the doctor whispered as he passed. “Forgive me, milady,” he added to the next marker, and so on. 

“Down below the chapel, in the crypts carved into the rock of the cliffs,” the Master whispered in the darkness, tugging his black cloak closer to ward off the chill that touched even his cold bones. 

The doctor walked around the crude rock altar, and stepped back and aside, drawing Gideon’s skull tight to his chest as he inhaled in surprise. The Count hurried to stand at his back, swooping close, wrapping his arms and his cloak protectively around the young man. 

“What is it? What troubles you, my dear?” he questioned. Reid would not open his eyes, merely pointed ahead at a particular space. The Master peered closer at the black cross on the floor and smirked. “Oh. Don’t let him bother you. A distant relative of mine. He was burned at the stake for molesting young acolytes. This way into the crypts,” he murmured, touching a kiss into the doctor’s wild hair. 

The Master pulled Reid by his hand, descending through the portal in the floor down the stone staircase which led to the natural caverns beneath the chapel which had been used for centuries for the eternal rest of the dead. The doctor froze stock-still, backing against the wall and holding tight to the space where he stood. 

“Could we not bring a lantern or a torch by which to see our path?” he begged. 

“Don’t be such a child,” the Master chided lovingly. 

"Haven't you ever been afraid of the dark?" the doctor asked. 

"Never, my dear doctor. For as long as I can remember, the dark has been afraid of me," Hotchner answered. 

The Master tugged Gideon’s skull out of Dr. Reid’s hands, and breathed a spark of fire through the gaping mouth – the kiss of light, so to speak. A faint illumination grew within the skull. Dim beams of light in the shape of empty eye sockets, the nasal passage, and the open jaw cast a faint glow into the darkness around them. 

“Better?” the Master asked, lifting the skull and offering it back to Dr. Reid. With much trepidation, the young man accepted the gift. 

“Thank you, Master,” he whispered. 

They were staring at each other when they heard the wooden doors above them being pushed open, and then pushed closed. Heavy boots came slowly across the floor of the chapel. 

“Spiritus sanctus?” the Master joked softly. Reid’s quirky, thin smile curled one side of his mouth upward. 

“I sincerely doubt it,” the doctor replied, reaching for his pistol once more.


	10. The Crypts

The figure stalking the Master and the doctor came down into the crypts by and by, after having taken a great deal of time in the chapel above. Hotchner and Reid had not wasted a moment of that time. They had stacked Professor Gideon’s skull on top of Reid’s satchel, and placed it in an intersection between three of the winding corridors which snaked through the crypts. If anyone approached, and by and by they surely would, Hotchner and Reid would be able to see them plainly. They waited silently in one of the nearby, open doorways, the Master in front and Reid peering over his shoulder. A shadow scampered past, moving along the twisting, winding corridor in a rolling, bouncing gait. Hotchner was about to call out, recognizing Rosu’s familiar presence, when the crack of a whip sounded. 

“Stop where you are!” a second voice called out. Rosu hit the ground in the intersection, landing on his hands and knees, his head lowered. He was in the beams of light from Gideon’s skull, and no doubt, he recognized Reid’s satchel on which the skull was seated. 

“Yes, Mistress,” Rosu whimpered. 

“You said he would be here. Have you lied to me? Where has your Master gone?” 

The voice belonged to a woman. The Master and the doctor recognized her at once when she stepped into the beams of light to examine the skull. 

“Strauss?!” the Master whispered. 

“Huh?” Reid echoed softly, facing the Master with astonishment in his eyes. 

“You know her?” they asked each other simultaneously. 

“I have seen her at the university. She works with Professor Gideon,” Reid whispered to the Master. Hotchner’s face drew tight with annoyance and irritation. 

“She is a famous hunter – she’s been stalking me for years,” he growled. "She haunts me like one of your spirits does you. Stay here. Do not let her see you," the Master ordered. 

When the Master stepped into the area illuminated by the pale glow of light coming from Gideon’s skull, Rosu inhaled with surprise, his head popping up, his face filling with anguish. He had lash marks across his twisted, raised shoulder and one across his face as well. 

Strauss whirled around to face Hotchner, cross in one hand, whip in the other. She was wearing a wide belt over her tweed skirt. The leather adornment was stacked from one side to the other with wooden stakes and a mallet, and phials very like the ones that had been smashed in Professor Gideon’s weathered valise. She was also dragging along a lumpy, filthy, burlap bag, from which cold blood was oozing in an unpleasant, gelatinous manner. 

“Master, oh Master, you’ve come to save me,” Rosu groveled at the Count’s feet. Hotchner reached down and petted him on the head. Rosu retreated back out of his way. 

“You!” Strauss bellowed, raising her cross at the Count. Hotchner drew himself to full height and hissed at her, bearing his teeth and fangs. 

“Master, beware of her!” Rosu warned. Hotchner stalked forward, and Strauss held her ground. She pocketed the whip, and rolled the grimy burlap bag at him with a kick from one heavy boot. 

Two blonde heads rolled out, and Strauss watched with unrestrained glee as Hotchner recognized the faces of two of his wives: Jennifer and Penelope. They had both died in agony, he surmised, if their expressions of pain were any indication. Their hair was horribly-disheveled, their faces bore the marks of Strauss’s whip and splashes from what looked like acid. There were the tell-tale signs of a long-handled axe being used to severe their heads from their bodies. 

“One of your bitches managed to escape, but I did subdue two of your dogs,” Strauss bragged. 

Hotchner could not stop now to mourn his lovely companions, but their deaths made him swell to an even-more threatening height and size. 

“You will pay dearly for what you have done to my family,” the Master growled at Strauss, looming forward at her, ever closer, ever closer. From behind him, a shaking voice emerged, along with the barrel of a pistol. 

“Stand down, please. Surrender, and you will be spared,” Reid said, edging forward, gun in hand. Strauss leaned sideways to glare at him past Hotchner’s broad shoulder. The Master glanced back for a moment over his shoulder. Even Rosu was staring at the doctor. Strauss’s face bloomed merrily. She lowered her cross. 

“Dr. Reid? What are you doing here?" 

"I came to find Professor Gideon." 

"Ah, I see. Were you successful?" 

"In a manner of speaking," Reid replied. 

"Splendid timing, regardless. Corral the monster, if you please,” the vampire-hunter commanded. 

The Master gave Reid a piercing stare. Reid gulped loudly in reply, and shook his head once at the Count. Hotchner growled deeply, and Reid shook his head again, seeming to plead with his eyes alone. 

“No, Madame Strauss. You mistake me. I am asking for you to surrender,” the young man clarified. “Quickly, please,” he added, cocking his pistol. 

Strauss tilted back her head and gave a throaty laugh. 

“Really, Dr. Reid. This is no time for frivolity. What would Professor Gideon say to this?” 

“He's not happy, but then he has only himself to blame,” Reid answered, indicating the lighted skull. Strauss studied the object, and faced the young doctor once more. 

“Dr. Reid, you surprise me. Professor Gideon always spoke of you in such glowing terms. How intelligent you were. How obedient and useful you were. How I could always trust you to do what you were told. Did Gideon have you all wrong?" 

"Please surrender, Director Strauss," Reid begged. "I have no wish to harm you." 

"Corral the monster, Dr. Reid, or I will have no choice but to consider you compromised,” she warned. 

The young man edged forward slowly, and put himself between Strauss and the Master. Rosu edged the other direction. He had a sense this was about to get quite ugly. 

“Please, Madame Strauss. Do not make this situation any more dangerous than it already is.” 

“He’s turned you, hasn’t he?” Strauss accused, pointing her crucifix at the doctor. “I should have known better than to let Gideon trust you. I should have known what a mewling weakling you’d turn out to be!” 

“Surrender, Director Strauss, and you will be spared. Defy me, and you will die a most unpleasant death. I’m quite sure,” the doctor warned. 

Warm liquid splashed Reid across the face, temporarily blinding his eyes. The Master hissed malevolently as he drew back, vanishing into mist and disappearing into the darkness. Reid wiped his wet face on his sleeve and glared at Strauss. 

“It doesn't matter how much holy water you splash on me, it won't change my mind," Reid said. 

"He's turned you!" Strauss bellowed angrily. "What has the monster done to you? What has the monster said to you?” 

“He’s not a monster. He’s a man.” 

“He’s a vampire!” Strauss shouted angrily. 

“He is a man, and he has done nothing to you. I swear if you surrender, I will see that you come to no harm. I will guide you safely to the borders of Carpathia. You will be free to leave, with the proviso that you never, ever return to these lands. Please, Madame Director, I beg you. Accept this offer, before it’s too late.” 

“Or what, Dr. Reid? You’ll shoot me?” 

“Yes,” Reid answered grimly. “If I must.” 

“I think not, Dr. Reid.” 

The sound of gunfire echoed loudly in the rock enclosure. Rosu hid his face in fear. Dr. Reid stared down at his own hand in surprise. He had not pulled the trigger. He couldn’t imagine where the gunfire had come from. 

He lifted his eyes to Strauss. There was a smoking pistol in her hand. 

Reid’s weapon fell from his fingers as his hand began to tremble. There was a hole through his thin overcoat, and steady stain of red growing on his clean, white shirt. A drip, drip, drip of blood was dropping from his lowered hand. The young man crumpled to the cold ground and lay unmoving. 

Strauss smiled widely to herself and pocketed her pistol. Rosu limped and rolled over to the doctor’s inert form. 

“Leave him where he lays. I will deal with him later,” Strauss commanded. Rosu shook Reid’s shoulder. 

“Wake up. Wake up. Wake up,” he pleaded. 

Strauss’s cackle of amusement echoed for a moment or two, but then it morphed into a fearful shriek of panic when the darkness suddenly surrounded her, very like a black velvet cloak had been whipped around her form. The last thing Director Strauss saw was a pair of cold, red eyes, and sharp, saliva-wet fangs as the Master descended upon her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vampire Hunter Strauss kinda reminds me of Delores Umbridge! Tweed skirts!


	11. Moonlight Sonata

“You should not be out of bed. Not in your condition.” 

“Master, I’m fine,” Dr. Reid insisted, climbing slowly and painfully to a standing position. 

“Rosu! Rosu? Why is he out of bed? I told you not to let him out of bed,” the Master fretted, putting an arm around the doctor and holding him for a moment before guiding him back down into the fluffy, overstuffed chair he had been bundled up in. The wolf of winter had her teeth clenched tight into Carpathia. Cold drafts filled the castle. Every chair in the library had either a knitted throw or a long fur wrap in it. The Master was not surprised to find Dr. Reid was in the library. It was by far the young man’s favorite room in the castle. 

Rosu came bounding in, bouncing and rolling, stopping just shy of colliding with Count Hotchner. The servant bowed, bounced backward, bowed again. 

“See!? I told him. See!?” he chided the doctor in one voice and spoke to the Master in quite another voice. “I told him, Master, I warned him you would be mad if he got up while you were sleeping. But he wouldn’t listen to me. He doesn’t listen. He never listens.” 

“The village doctor was here today, and he said I am fine. He said it’s time to get out of bed, to walk around, to rebuild my strength,” Reid replied. He did not protest as the Master untied his robe, untied his nightshirt, and probed the healed gunshot wound in his left side near to his armpit. 

“That man is a menace. I should have never let him near you. He’s not even fifty years old. What could he possibly have learned about medicine in his short lifespan? Are you quite sure you’re feeling well enough to be out of bed?” 

“I’m fine,” Reid whispered, his eyes in the Master’s eyes, his mouth turned up halfway with a gentle smile. 

The Master stopped probing the doctor’s scarred side, and tenderly caressed his bared ribs. Hotchner was thankful once again that Strauss had managed to miss the young man’s heart with her treacherous shot in the dark. In spite of the lighted skull illuminating the intersection between the corridors, it would have been a surprise if Strauss had been able to make a kill-shot under those circumstances. However, the Master could not help but see the Hand of the Divine in the fact that the doctor’s life had been spared, even if the doctor himself had chalked up his survival to poor conditions and damned amazing luck. 

They did not speak of that horrible night, in which the Master had lost two wives, a third wife had gone missing, and he had also nearly lost his new companion and faithful servant as well. They were doing their best to move on with their lives. It wouldn’t do a bit of good for any of them to linger too long on such dark topics, but particularly the Master, because he was prone to melancholy in winter as it was. 

Jennifer and Penelope had been laid to rest (well, their skulls had, at any rate). Their portraits were now hanging with Haley’s portrait in the main hall. An all-out search had been launched for Emily, but thus far, there had been no sign of her. She must have retreated to a location where she felt secure, the Master had decided. Either London, or Paris, or perhaps New York. He had put out messages in newspapers, and has sent letters to mutual friends, reassuring Emily that it was safe for her to return home, and that he missed her very much and longed for her to come back. Time would tell if she decided to accept this open invitation. 

Professor Gideon had also been laid to rest. Rosu had helped the Master cremate Gideon and put his ashes in an urn. That urn had been placed in one of the empty crypts in the Chapel in the Woods. Reid would be able to visit him if he so desired, when he was well enough to walk around the woods, preferably during the day when he was less likely to encounter vampire hunters or adventure seekers or anything more dangerous than deer or rabbits. 

The Master did not say what he had done with Director Strauss’s body, and Dr. Reid had not asked. There was initial concern that whatever self-righteous organization at the university that Gideon and Strauss had been a part of might send someone else to locate Dr. Reid or Director Strauss, but thus far, there had been no sign of anyone. Hotchner found it more than a little sad that no one at all had come looking for Dr. Reid. After all, the young man had been locked up here in this castle since late October. In a week, it would be the New Year. Was there no one on the planet, no colleague, no friend, no relative who cared enough to come searching for the missing young man? 

Much as he had taken in Rosu, the Master had taken in Dr. Reid, though admittedly not for the same reasons. After the village doctor had been summoned to tend Dr. Reid’s gunshot wound, the young man had been placed in his guest room to recuperate. Count Hotchner had taken to fussing over the young man, nursing him back to health, pouring any number of herbal remedies and all manner of tenderness upon him. It was a slow healing process, but it had afforded them a good deal of time to get to know one another, to share conversations over books and music and life matters. Over these weeks and months, they had become so close that the Master could now not imagine how he had ever muddled through life before the beautiful, brilliant young man had crossed his threshold and entered this castle, like a beam of moonlight into a previously dark and lonely world. Strains of the Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata rolled through the Master’s mind as he tied Dr. Reid’s nightshirt and drew his robe around him again. 

“He was walking up and down the tower too, for no good reason,” Rosu babbled. 

“Was he?” the Master scolded Reid with gentle eyes. “Clearly, I shall have to keep a better watch on him, won’t I? Weigh down his ankles so he can’t get far, can’t hurt himself with no one around to help lift him up, hmm?” the Count pondered, tickled Reid’s chin with long fingertips. 

“Shall I send tea, Master? Coffee? Wine? Something stronger?” Rosu asked. 

“No, thank you. That will be all. Leave us in peace for a while,” the Master commanded. 

“Yes, Master,” Rosu gushed, bowing and groveling, and disappearing quickly out of the library. He smiled slyly at them, slowly pulling the door to a crack. 

“You should be in bed. You’ll over-exert yourself,” Hotchner said, eyeing Reid closely before dropping a gentle kiss on the doctor’s lips. He stopped suddenly, stood straight, turned, and faced the door. “Rosu, in peace,” he called out. The door crashed shut tightly at the command. 

The Master smiled as he walked around the room, gathering the fur coverings and knitted throws off every chair in close proximity. He spread each of them out before the fireplace, making a cushiony pallet, which he tested with one knee as he kindled a spark of fire into the dying hearth, renewing the flames. The Master smoothed the furs and stood again, extending one hand to the young man in the chair. 

Dr. Reid stood, putting his hand in the Master’s hand, allowing himself to be guided to the pallet of throws and furs. The Count nuzzled Reid’s cheek, easing him down onto the make-shift bed, wrapping him in both arms, cushioning his head on one shoulder. They sat before the fire, staring into the flames together as the Master bundled his cloak around Reid to keep him warm. 

“No word from Emily yet?” the Master questioned, noting that there were letters and envelopes on the table beside the doctor’s chair. Morgan must have brought the post from the village earlier in the daylight hours. 

“None, yet. I have made discrete inquires among spiritualist colleagues. I think in the new year, we should start our search anew in London.” 

“London?” 

“I have a very good feeling we shall find her there. We could be in England in no time at all by ship.” 

The Master smiled indulgently, and held Reid more closely. 

“You are not ready for such an arduous journey. If anyone goes to London to search for Emily, it will be me. You will stay here, where I can be sure you are safe from harm.” 

“Master….” Reid protested. 

“Shhh. I will hear no more of it. My mind is made up.” 

“So stubborn,” Reid whispered tiredly, nosing a kiss to the Master’s cheek. Hotchner made no verbal reply beyond a deep chuckle. He nosed his way down Reid’s neck, nuzzling his warm skin, delighting in the shivers that coursed through the young man’s body. “Cold nose. Cold nose. Cold nose,” the doctor squeaked, curling his thin frame together. The Master growled softly, easing open the purple velvet robe, and nipping at bare skin as he undid Reid’s nightshirt once more. 

Kisses and caresses moved downward, spread by soft lips and large, strong hands which had learned to be much more gentle over these last few weeks. Reid moaned and whispered encouragements into Hotchner’s ear, lifting his hips, letting the Master draw his nightshirt up. The thin silk was bunched around Reid’s middle. The young man’s long, thin fingers found their way into short, bristly hair as the Master kissed and licked bare skin illuminated by the twisting red and gold flames. Reid slid his arms out of his robe, sitting up so the Master could slid his nightshirt off and away, leaving himself naked against the velvet and the furs. Hotchner tossed the nightshirt aside, landing it in the large chair instead of in the flames. His dark eyes worshipped Reid as the young man stretched and crawled painfully back towards his chair, retrieving a phial from his satchel. 

No words were spoken. None were needed. Reid crawled quickly back to the Master, giving him the phial. The young man stayed on his hands and knees, breath rasping, heart thumping, as the Master prepared him, knowing hands touching all the places that would set the young doctor’s passions aflame. The young man’s ardent moaning was nearly as loud as the wolves that could be heard in the woods outside the castle, raising their voices, the children of the night. Reid rocked and writhed back against the Master’s fingers, quivered with each nip, each kiss, each caress on his shoulders and spine. 

“Please….Master….please,” the doctor finally broke down, his limbs shaking, too full of anticipation, sounding slightly desperate. The Master smiled indulgently, and steadied Reid’s rocking hips, sliding himself inside him, nestling their bodies close. He reveled in the urgent keening that Reid was emitting, now beyond the point of caring if anyone heard him. The Count set up a steady pace, thrusting, grinding as he watched the firelight dance over Reid’s naked limbs, his warm bare skin. Reid called out with each thrust, pushing back, shaking and shuddering. 

“Tell me what you want,” the Master purred in Reid’s ear. 

“Fuck….oh…fuck….yes….” the young man babbled. 

“Tell me what you need,” Hotchner rumbled. 

“You…only you…Master, oh Master,” Reid replied. Hotchner held him tighter, reaching around the young man to stroke him to completion. Reid cried out at the touch, and the Master smiled at the thought of his cold hands against searing hot, sensitive flesh. Reid cried out a second time, covering the Master’s hand with wet liquid heat. In reply, in concert even, the Master’s body responded to those desperate sounds, filling the young man with his seed. 

They lay panting on the pallet of furs, turning to nestle together face to face. The Master nosed kisses to Reid’s sweat-dampened forehead, pushing his hair out of his eyes. For a moment, the young man was awash with pleasure and affection, perhaps even love, a mixture of all three. 

Then Reid sat up suddenly with a startled squeak, pulling his robe around his nakedness, averting his eyes, hiding his face. The Master sat up too, pushing his own rumbled clothes further away from the pallet of furs. He glanced around the room, his mouth twitching with a smile. 

“Who is it this time?” he asked. Clearly this was a frequent occurrence. Reid didn’t answer, but he was blushing furiously. “All right. Perhaps it's better I don't know. But I warn you, I am inches from calling in a priest to exorcise this entire castle, if only we can have a few moments together without interference from the Other Side,” Hotchner grumbled. 

Reid turned around, shyly casting his eyes first at the chair, and then at the Master. 

“Whoever it is, they had better be gone or….” Hotchner threatened. 

“My lord, have you got Director Strauss’s head stashed around here somewhere?” Reid asked timidly. “In a room I haven’t seen, in a cubby hole in the stairs, in a root cellar in the basement?” 

“Oh! It’s her, is it?” the Master grinned, throwing off the furs and standing up so that the firelight illuminated his naked form. He happily imagined Director Strauss’s gasp of horror and embarrassment. He drew Reid up and into his arms. He turned around, and sat down in the chair, pulling Reid along, kissing the young man until he could barely breathe. 

“My lord, have you got her head hung on the wall somewhere?” Reid asked more firmly once the kiss was finished. 

“Certainly not,” the Master replied. 

“My lord?” 

“I do not have Strauss’s head hung on any wall, anywhere. Nor stuffed in a cubbyhole. Nor squirreled away in a root cellar in the basement. This I swear to you on my honor.” 

“Whatever you’ve done with her, she is not happy with you, and even less happy with me, I’m afraid.” 

“Good. I hope she remains miserable, grim, and most unhappy for a very long time,” the Master purred. “Shall I read to you for a while, my pet?” 

“Yes, please,” Reid answered. It was something he looked forward to every evening - having the Master read to him from one of the many books in the library. Truth be told, the Master looked forward to these moments as well. 

“Do your best to ignore her,” the Master advised, picking up a book from the small table, opening to the red, silken mark, and clearing his throat. _“ ‘Dr. Seward’s Diary, 7 September. The first thing Van Helsing said to me when we met at Liverpool Street was: “Have you said anything to our young friend, the lover of her?”_ ‘ Yes? What is it?” 

The Master raised a brow at Dr. Reid when the young man’s thin mouth curled with a happy smile. Reid leaned his head against Hotchner’s shoulder, nestling close to his body. 

“It’s nothing. Please, Master. Go on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Master is reading Bram Stoker's Dracula to the young doctor.


	12. Epilogue - Like A Steak Through My Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wrong word in title is intentional.

Reid was reading upside down, watching Jonathan Malvern's fingers fly over the page with all the grace of a construction worker’s hands. It was clear that putting a pen to paper was not a habitual activity for Malvern. 

Hotch had stuck Reid with this interrogation because Morgan had run up against a brick wall of arrogant obstinacy. JJ was with Mr. and Mrs. Malvern, reassuring Jonathan's parents that they made the correct decision to turn him in. Prentiss was in the outer room consoling Jamie Wheatley, the sobbing girl who had been present when Malvern had burst in and attacked her much-adored drama teacher. 

Hotch watched a tiny quiver wiggle the left side of Reid’s mouth – anyone else would have missed the hint of humor that was breaking through. Reid raised his eyes to the observation window, and stilled the teen’s hand. He pointed to the page. 

“What’s that word?” Reid asked. 

“Something you don’t hear often from Dr. Reid,” Morgan murmured to Hotch from inside the observation room. Hotch snorted and cracked a quick smile. Rossi was cackling already. 

“Steak. A wooden thing. You know. You pound it into a vampire,” the teen explained, pantomiming the action. 

Reid heaved an impatient sigh. He snatched the tablet away, yanked off the page, crumbled it, and tossed it into the trashcan across the room. 

“Honestly,” Reid shook his head, frowning at the boy. Spencer tapped the end of the pen, and put it to the paper. “Dictate,” he demanded, rolling one hand in a “gimme, gimme, gimme” motion towards the teen. 

“What?” the kid asked. 

“Tell me everything you did tonight. Start at the beginning.” 

“What’s wrong with the way I was writing it?” 

“You drove a 'steak' through his heart?” 

“A wooden steak. Yeah.” 

“A steak, s-t-e-a-k, is something that you eat with a baked potato and dinner rolls. A wooden stake, s-t-a-k-e, is what you use to kill a vampire.” 

“What’s the difference?” 

“The difference, Jonathan, is that with one sentence, one word, you can either convince people that you’re a troubled young man with delusions about supernatural creatures, or you can convince people that you’re haven’t had a day of education past the sixth grade, and that you probably committed this crime because you’re not intelligent enough to comprehend the inappropriateness or permanence of the act. Which do you prefer?” 

“There’s no need to be insulting.” 

“Yes, there is,” Reid disagreed, getting up and going to get the piece of paper. “Let me explain. By your age, most people have learned the difference between its and it’s, steak and stake, your and you’re. The ability to distinguish between the homophones of your mother tongue – it’s a basic fundamental ability by which people will judge your intelligence level. That might not be fair, but it is reality, and at one point or another, we must all accept reality. If people read this confession, and they judge you by what you’ve written, they’re going to think you’re an idiot as well as a murderer. I suspect you’d like to be considered more intelligent than linoleum flooring. Am I correct?” 

“It doesn’t matter. I’m a murderer.” 

“Have a little pride,” Reid whined, coming back to the table and folding the piece of paper out again. “You did this. You committed this crime. Own it. Start from the top. Dictate to me what you mean to say, and I’ll help you write it correctly.” 

“You can’t be serious.” 

“I can be, yes.” 

“After dinner, when I couldn’t reach Jamie, I went over Mr. Drake home. I knew he’d be working on the blocking out the scenes for the play rehearsal next week.” 

“You knocked and Mr. Drake let you in?” 

“No. I got in through the garage door. He told all of us that he left the door unlocked in case anyone needed a place to crash or whatever.” 

“Mr. Drake left his garage door unlocked in the event his students needed a place to stay? He opened his home to you? All of his students knew about this practice?” 

“Yes.” 

“How high are you?” Reid asked bluntly and not without a hint of humor. 

“What?” the teen floundered, puzzled, irritated. 

“You entered a man’s home, bashed his skull with a bat, and drove a wooden stake through his heart because he was dressed in black and wearing fake fangs, rehearsing the next play for the high school -- Dracula. You did all this in front of a witness. Trust me when I tell you, I am not the first person who is going to ask you what drugs you were taking tonight when you killed Mr. Drake.” 

“I’m not high. I’m not drunk. I wasn’t under the influence.” 

“Where’d you get the bat?” 

“Bat?” 

“You struck him with a bat. Where did you get the bat?” 

“I brought it with me, remember?” 

“With the intention of killing Mr. Drake?” 

“No.” 

“Why did you bring the bat? You were going to ask him to play a little slow pitch at night in October?” 

“No. I don’t know. I brought it for protection.” 

“Mr. Drake made you fear for your life? He disturbed you? You didn’t trust him?” 

“No, that’s not it at all.” 

“Where did you get the stake?” 

“What stake?” 

“The stake you drove through Mr. Drake’s chest.” 

“In the garage. He’s got this big landscaping project planned for his yard for spring. Well, had planned, anyhow. He must have had thirty of those stakes laying around. He was also digging up topsoil to use during the play, to fill Dracula’s coffin,” Malvern replied, rolling his eyes. 

“Weapon of opportunity. What did you use to drive the stake into his chest?” 

“Um…what?” 

“You didn’t push it through his sternum and ribs and lungs, and sever his spine with brute force. You used an implement to pound on the top of the stake. What did you use?” 

“The bat.” 

“The bat you brought with you?” 

“Yes.” 

"So I can safely assume this was not a pre-meditated act of violent murder, but a thought that occurred to you in the heat of the moment?" 

"Yes," Malvern said miserably. 

"That's better," Reid offered. "That would make it second-degree murder." 

"I'm going to jail. I'm going to Hell," Malvern moaned. 

Reid paused, put down the pen, and stared hard at the teen. 

“Can I give you a word of advice?” 

“Can I stop you?” 

“Totally off the record, the next time you find yourself in a battle to the death with a man you suspect is a vampire, you should decapitate him.” 

“What?” the teen blinked wildly. 

“Decapitation is the most recommended method for killing a vampire. There’s ‘decapitation and removal of the heart’. There's ‘decapitation and the wooden stake’. There's ‘decapitation and placing a block of iron on the chest of the vampire’. There's ‘decapitation and burning the body of the vampire’. That one is very popular, in fact. What do all these methods for stopping the vampire have in common?” 

“Decapitation.” 

“Very good. But what did you not do to Mr. Drake?” 

“I did not decapitate him?” 

“Very good. So, in essence, if indeed Mr. Drake had actually been a vampire, you have injured him, but you haven’t killed him, and now someone else is going to have to finish the job. That wasn't exactly a well-thought-out plan. I’d sleep with one eye open for a while if I were you.” 

“What? No. Really? Are you….are you screwing with me?” 

“If you’re going to take it upon yourself to go out into the world and stop the forces of evil, the least you could do is little preparatory reading. Would it kill you to crack a book, or practice some Google-fu? Just what the world needs, another half-assed vampire hunter who can’t be bothered to do basic research. Thanks a lot.” 

The teen studied Reid with a disquieted expression on his face. 

“You know it’s all pretend, right?” the teen said. 

“Oh, pretend, is it? For thousands of years mankind has been battling the forces of evil, and you think it’s all pretend? Mr. Malvern, the world of vampire-hunters can get along fine without you, your incompetent tactics, or your snide remarks. ‘Nothing more dangerous than a little education’. Do you know what that statement means?” 

“Education is dangerous.” 

“No!” Reid exclaimed. “It means that too little education makes someone like you dangerous enough to think you know what you’re doing, but too stupid to realize how much harm you’re actually causing. Thanks to you and your rank incompetence as an amateur vampire-hunter, there could be an injured, angry, vengeful creature of the night now lurking in this city. Thanks. Thanks a lot.” 

“It’s pretend. It’s not real,” the teen insisted. Reid folded one elbow up onto the table, and leaned his thin chin on his palm to study the young man. 

“Is it? Are you quite sure?” 

“It’s all pretend,” the teen insisted. 

“Bram Stoker based his novel predominantly on Eastern European folklore, but there are tales of vampire-like creatures that go back as far as Mesopotamia and Ancient Greece. What do you think those tales were based on? Actual events that happened over thousands of years in and around every region of the known world. Actual people who committed actual crimes. Certainly not everything was pretend.” 

“You’re trying to scare me, but it’s not going to work. I don’t believe in vampires. They are not real.” 

“Then why did you drive a stake through Mr. Drake's heart if you didn’t really believe he was a vampire?” 

“Because he was an ass.” 

“But you told SSA Hotchner and Agent Morgan that you killed Mr. Drake because you thought he was a vampire.” 

“No. That was pretend. Okay? It’s pretend. It’s all pretend.” 

“You killed Mr. Drake because he was an ass?” 

“Yes.” 

“You’re sure?” 

“Yes!” 

“Then why did you bring up the whole vampire scenario?” 

“Insanity.” 

“Thank you for being honest with me. In hopes of obtaining a sentence of not guilty by reason of insanity, you concocted the idea that you would tell everyone you had killed Mr. Drake because you thought he was a vampire?” 

“Yes.” 

“Are you absolutely sure that’s the statement you want to give?” Reid questioned, picking up the tablet and tearing off the second page and balling it up to toss it with the first page. He started at the top of the third page and waited. 

“Absolutely sure? Just tell me the truth, Mr. Malvern. That's all I'm asking you to do.” 

“Look, the man was a joke. He was a dick. He spent all day, making himself all cool to everyone, so they'd think he was one of them. But all he wanted was to get into Jamie Wheatley’s pants. Is that plain enough English for you?” 

“Jamie Wheatley? The student who was in Mr. Drake’s living room when you burst in? The same Jamie you were trying to reach earlier in the evening?” 

“Yes. What do you care?” 

“I care a great deal. We’re here because I need to know the why of what you’ve done. If the reason you killed Mr. Drake was jealousy over his inappropriate actions with a student, then that goes a long way towards explaining your motive. You're still in second-degree murder, but now we've got mitigating circumstances, don't we? How does this sound? ‘I killed Mr. Drake because he was banging my crush’.” 

“Wait? What? No! He wasn’t banging Jamie!” 

“But you said…” 

“He wanted to bang her. He didn’t get to bang her.” 

“Was it an attempted banging?” 

"NO!" 

“No need to get defensive. I’m merely attempting to get the details of your story straight in my mind.” 

“He wasn’t banging my crush. Okay?!” 

“But he wanted to?” 

“Yeah!” 

“How do you know?” 

“She was bragging to her girlfriends about how often he would text and call her. She was over at his house every evening, supposedly practicing for the play.”   
Reid tore off another piece of paper and tossed it on the pile. He started at the top of the next page. 

“ ‘I killed Mr. Drake because he was attempting to bang my crush’," Reid wrote and spoke. 

“She was over at his house all the time,” the teen complained. 

Reid looked up and kept writing, nodding along. 

“I took the bat with me because I was mad. I wasn't going to kill him. I was going to break his leg or something.” 

“Mm hmm,” Reid nodded, still writing. 

“I went in, and there he was, all dressed up, looking like an idiot, and there was Jamie, dressed in that stupid nightgown, and him sucking on her neck, and the idea popped into my head. I could do this to look like a vampire killing, tell everyone he was…” 

“A vampire. I get it. Go on.” 

“Which is all pretend. No one is really a vampire. Okay? You know that. I know that. Write that down. I know he wasn’t a vampire. That was all pretend.” 

“Oh, I’m writing it down,” Reid nodded emphatically. 

“I don’t want people thinking I’m a delusional idiot.” 

“Fine. I’m good with that. This is all about you. Keep talking,” Reid urged. “Did Jamie ask you to kill Mr. Drake?” 

“WHAT?! Fuck no! Jesus Christ!" 

"You burst in, saw them together, might have thought Mr. Drake was taking advantage of your friend? She screamed out for your help? You rescued her from Mr. Drake's sexual advances?" 

"Jamie is not that kind of girl! She had nothing to do with this. It was me. It was my idea. I did this. She was screaming for me to stop, screaming and screaming. She made me go home to my parents. She made me turn myself in. None of this is Jamie's fault.” 

“Okay,” Reid agreed amiably. Inside the observation room, Morgan was looking at Hotch, Hotch was looking at Morgan, and they were both shaking their heads. Rossi was folding his notes up. 

"Gentlemen, I think we're done here," Dave bubbled gleefully. 

“Am I really going to jail for this?” Malvern asked. Reid stopped writing. He raised his head. His eyes went wide with surprise, then narrowed with cool disdain. 

“Yes, Jonathan. You entered a man's home. You bashed in his skull. You drove a wooden stake through his heart. Yes, you are going to jail for this,” Reid answered crisply. 

"But I told you the truth," Malvern pleaded. 

"Look on the bright side," Reid replied. 

"Bright side?" Jonathan choked. 

"You'll have plenty of time to catch up on your reading," Reid consoled.


End file.
